


Sold

by BananaStickers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Heavy Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, I Promise There's an Actual Happy Ending, M/M, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Rarepair, Revenge, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:39:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 51
Words: 184,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Sidney Crosby, captain of the warshipPenguin,hunts pirates for a living.  His worst nightmare comes true when he’s captured by pirates in the lawless Caribbean.  Forced to ingratiate himself with the crew he spent so long fighting, every day is a struggle.The only thing he’s certain of: come hell or high water, he’s going to be a free man again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Never Trust a Pirate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12397125) by [BananaStickers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers). 



> Recently, I wrote a PG-13 genfic pirate!AU which is linked in the "inspired by". In the fic, Sidney Crosby gets mockingly threatened to be sold to a brothel. It doesn't happen in the original fic, but my beta picked that up and told me I should _totally_ do that, and Boone Jenner should pay him a visit. So, I wrote her what I'd intended to be a single-chapter sort of gift and it morphed into a life of its own.
> 
> You do not need to read the other work. They share some chapters (the first four, in the original fic), but I have recreated them here (with some minor changes, such as taking out certain small subplots).
> 
> So:
> 
> **If you've read the other fic, proceed directly to chapter 2. New content starts there.**  
> 
> **If you've not read the other fic, start here, at the beginning. All shared chapters are contained in this fic's chapter 1, with the exception of a small transition bit that is new.**
> 
> Alternatively, you're welcome to just start at chapter 2 if you want to dispose of any back story. There's only a few things you have to realize : each NHL city is its own country, Crosby is part of the Pittsburgh Navy whose duty is fighting pirates, and he gets captured by the pirate _Blue Jacket_ crew (with an assist from the pirate _Capital_ crew) and sold to a brothel. 
> 
> This can be read fandom-blind (since it's an RPF historical AU). If you'd like a face to a name:  
> [Sidney Crosby](https://i.imgur.com/rVypIS2.png)  
> [Boone Jenner, Seth Jones (minor part in this fic), Scott Harrington (who does not make an appearance in this fic)](https://i.imgur.com/ks6Cw2Q.jpg)  
> [Brandon Dubinsky](https://i.imgur.com/cS4g94x.jpg)  
> [Nick Foligno](https://i.imgur.com/CWxzxRy.jpg)  
> [Sidney Crosby & Alex Ovechkin](https://i.imgur.com/aEnzUSo.png)
> 
> I love comments but they're moderated because some people can't handle the "slavery" tag. America doesn't even exist in its current configuration in this AU. Also, if you didn't know what you were getting into, _super crazy consent issues, lots of dubcon, sex slavery, slavery in general, etc._ Please be aware if this isn't your cup of tea.
> 
> Special thanks to sheesusnat for giving me feedback and helping bounce ideas off and keeping my head-canon on track. To what is probably the ~14 people who are VERY excited about this bizarre rarepair, you can thank her :)

Sidney Crosby turned over the long, thick, oddly-shaped item in his hand with some amusement. It was elongated, gently curved and firm, but had a little give to it. "And what do you call this thing, again?"

"It's a banana, captain," Bryan Rust, one of their younger sailors, explained. "They're originally from overseas, but grow particularly well in this kind of climate. Very tasty, I'm told."

"Hmm." _This kind of climate_ the kid was referring to was the Caribbean. God above, Sid hated this part of the world. It was hot, all the time, which meant he was always too warm, dressed in his naval uniform which some idiot had decided would wear best if it was long-sleeved and fully covered from neck to toe.

Of course, if you weren't covered from neck to toe the infernal mosquitoes would eat you alive. So really, the Caribbean was a lose-lose proposition, as far as Crosby was concerned.

"You peel it," Rust supplied with a smile, his cheer withering at the captain's glare.

"Yes, sailor, I can see that. You may go now, thank you."

Bryan's eyes were wide as saucers at the rebuke. He nodded, ducking out of the cabin and back up towards the deck.

Sid took off his tricorne, placing it gingerly on his desk and running a hand through his sweaty, matted hair. At least the Navy had stopped trying to get his crew to wear their wigs. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he had to wear the hot, itchy thing. Part of him felt a bit bad for the young sailor. Rust had been a fine addition to the ship, willing to fight hard and put himself on the line when needed. It was the damn heat that made him grumpy.

Sid's ship, the _Penguin,_ had been named for its original purpose as the first ship from Pittsburgh to visit the Antarctic. Of course, Crosby wasn't on the ship back then; it had been Mario Lemieux's to captain, at the time. Her two successful voyages to the Antarctic, bringing back fame, glory, and lots of research specimens like the aforementioned penguins, had meant a fast promotion for Lemieux. Today even Crosby answered to him as the Fleet Admiral. Mario seemed to enjoy the position, but Sid wasn't ready for a promotion yet. He couldn't imagine not being captain of his own ship, having to move onto a land job, where they talked more about strategy and planning than actually sailing the seas.

It sounded dreadful, to be honest.

Today, the boat had a different and unique purpose amongst the fleet. The country of Pittsburgh had decided it would no longer tolerate pirates that harassed their boats and colonies around the world and the _Penguin_ was the perfect ship for the job. She was suited towards long-haul expeditions, small yet powerful, and tremendously fast. So, while many Navy boats safeguarded the Pittsburgh harbors, or escorted merchant vessels - playing defense, essentially - the _Penguin_ was sent out to play offense. They'd take the fight to the pirates, especially any who had previously dared to attack ships in Pittsburgh's waters.

Even when that fight led them to the Caribbean, much to Captain Crosby's chagrin.

Sidney prodded the banana for a moment before biting at one end, spitting out the stem and peeling off the thick, purple skin.

"Well, let's see how good this banana is," he muttered to himself, taking a tentative bite and chewing slowly. Sid was pleasantly surprised, and followed it up with a larger piece of banana to eat. It _was_ tasty, with a mildly sweet flavor that he had a tough time equating to anything else he'd ever eaten.

"I suppose the Caribbean is only _mostly_ worthless," he mused. After he'd eaten the entire banana, he took a small bite of the skin, chewed, spit it out quickly. No, he understood now why they said you had to peel it. That was not pleasant at all.

He dropped the peel into the bowl next to his feet, garbage that would be thrown overboard once they were sailing instead of anchor dropped outside a harbor. Then, he turned his attention back to the large map in front of him, curling gently at the edges. It had the last known whereabouts of a number of pirate ships the _Penguin_ was hunting. The _Ranger_ was last seen in a skirmish a few islands over with the _Lightning_ \- Sid hoped with any luck, maybe they'd sink each other. Pirates fighting pirates was always the best case scenario; let them sustain casualties and sink ships with their petty squabbles. Pirates didn't fight nearly enough for Sid's liking, engaged in a mostly tenuous alliance, but any battle was a good battle as far as Sid was concerned. On the other hand, the _Hurricane_ was setting sail again for colder waters, heading across the ocean, going north.

_Towards Pittsburgh,_ Sid thought, jaw clenching, but he knew if the _Hurricane_ crew tried anything, there was a well fortified perimeter around the country. Let them try.

Instead, Crosby focused in on one ship in particular, thought to be very close by; the _Blue Jacket._

Laying next to the map was what they'd come to call the "scouting report". Matt Murray, their sailing master, had prepared the document for the _Blue Jacket._ They were already a fairly well-known foe to the _Penguin,_ but it couldn't hurt to get a refresher. Crosby picked it up and scanned the pages.

The _Blue Jacket_ 's crew had not always been pirates. In fact, most of them had previously been in the Columbus Navy. Columbus and Pittsburgh had plenty of history, mostly of skirmishes and bad blood. For years, Columbus had been aligned with two other small countries, Cleveland and Cincinnati. They'd united against Pittsburgh, who had fought them all, sending in their army after the other two countries, and their navy against the port country of Columbus.

Pittsburgh's army, colloquially known as the Steelers, had traditionally done very well against Cleveland and Cincinnati, with massive wins almost every time they met. Columbus' Navy had often fared no better. So when a treaty was drawn up, a cease-fire proposed, that they would become tied with a number of other countries - including Pittsburgh - in an alliance now known as America, well, Columbus had jumped at the chance.

America. Sid snorted. Their alliance-state was named after the man who brokered the treaty (and, Crosby had heard, was a huge asshole). Who named an alliance after themselves? Really, who did that?

Big egos, Sid supposed, shaking his head.

Anyway, the crew of the _Blue Jacket_ was not thrilled to be aligning themselves with a number of other countries they'd feuded with. Pushing to remain independent, they'd been ignored. Apparently that hadn't sat well with the crew, because they stole one of Columbus' finest ships and sailed off in the night, for their new career as pirates. They named themselves after the uniform they'd worn when they fought as an independent country. Just couldn't give up the fight. Crosby almost felt bad for them.  
Almost.

To complicate things, their new Columbus allies had requested that, if possible, the _Blue Jacket_ be captured and brought back to the country. Despite its current unsavory usage, it was still a fine vessel, had been their best, and they wanted it back. Normally, Crosby would just sink the damn thing and leave the pirate bodies at the bottom of the sea. Disabling the ship and boarding it would be a lot more difficult and costly, but Columbus was paying well, apparently, because he had his orders.

He flipped a page and the serious, unsmiling face of the _Blue Jacket_ captain appeared from the dossier. Captain Nick Foligno. He and Crosby had shared skirmishes, back when their countries were at war, and Sid had always found him to be an honorable man and an excellent tactician. He'd even go so far as to say he kind of liked Foligno. Which is why he was hoping to capture him alive, so he could be brought back to Columbus and have a chance to repent for his sins and pray forgiveness before he was executed.

Sidney wrinkled his nose at the man grinning wildly out of the next page, a parrot perched on his shoulder in the grainy photo. Sometimes he had to question Foligno's current state of sanity, with whom he chose as his officers. Brandon Dubinsky was the Quartermaster, and as such, the default #2 on the ship. The _Penguin_ had her own QM, Kris Letang, but Kris was an honorable and fair man, and an excellent second-in-command. Pirate Quartermasters were a different breed. They were responsible for keeping the ship's essentials and booty, distributing them fairly and settling quarrels between sailors. And a man responsible for settling quarrels amongst the world's criminal scum could only be the worst of the worst. His crew loved him, apparently, but he was a monster in battle, vicious and blood thirsty. The worst case scenario in the battles against the _Blue Jacket_ was that Captain Foligno be killed, and Dubinsky would be voted into the captaincy.

The other officer wasn't quite down at Dubinsky's level, but still nowhere as honorable as Captain Foligno. He was pictured on the third page: Boone Jenner, scowling from photo. Jenner was their Master Gunner and had a long-standing blood feud with the _Penguin_ 's own MG, Evgeni Malkin. Evgeni, or Geno as the crew called him, got entirely too excited whenever the _Blue Jacket_ 's cannons went silent, problems with the equipment or gun powder, which was Boone's responsibility. Sid tried to keep Geno even-keeled and level-headed, but it was a challenge sometimes. He was certainly passionate.

Sidney was interrupted from his studies by a knock on his cabin. Setting aside the paperwork, he called out a greeting.

"Captain, fresh report." It was Tristan Jarry, their new sailing master apprentice. Crosby smiled just a little bit wider, to prevent any other emotion from showing on his face. Matt Murray was recently promoted from apprentice to the ship's sailing master due to their old SM, Marc-Andre Fleury, going missing. The _Penguin_ had been docked on shore leave, months ago, and Marc had simply never returned.

Fleury was one of Sid's oldest, closest friends and crew mates, so he knew that Marc didn't abandon ship. Either Fleury was dead, or he had been kidnapped by pirates. Sailing masters were essential to ships, with their intimate knowledge of maps and stars and sailing instruments. Most pirate crews, upon losing their own sailing master, attempted to acquire a new one in any way possible, including kidnapping.

Mostly, Sid prayed that Marc was dead. Not that he didn't want to see his friend again. More than anything, he did. But the thought of Marc, forcibly conscripted onto a pirate ship...it made his stomach turn. Him being dead was truly the best outcome of all the terrible, awful possibilities.

"What do you have for me?" Sid asked.

Jarry returned the smile. "Intel from some locals. The _Blue Jacket_ is definitely in these waters, and looks to be currently operating primarily at night. Likely attempting to avoid us. I have here all the newest known locations of the ship."

"Excellent, thank you." Jarry turned to leave, but Sid called him back. He turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Tristan, I know you're new to the crew, so I was thinking...perhaps, tonight, if it's quiet. We might sit down and share a drink." Normally, the Navy was not nearly so informal for officers to drink with the crew. But the _Penguin,_ being such a long-haul ship, was a little unique. It was more like a brotherhood at times, although there was no disagreement to Sid's absolute command in battle.

Jarry, for his part, looked thrilled. "Thank you, Captain. I'd like that very much."

~~~~~

Sidney Crosby never got that drink. Just as it was getting towards dusk, the sun starting to dip lower and shower the sky with radiant pinks and oranges, there came a yell from the crow's nest and their lookout. "Ship ahead!" Tom Kuhnhackl's face appeared from up high. "It's the _Blue Jacket!"_

Sid heard the call out even from his cabin, Tom giving detailed directions on heading to intercept, and was still scrambling up the stairs when he heard his second-in-command bark the next orders. "Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen! Let's go, boys!" Letang shouted.

As Crosby reached the deck, Phil Kessel - the ship's boatswain - and his apprentice, Conor Sheary, were heading past Sid in a run. The captain reached out to snag Kessel, who barked at his young mate to keep going. "Check the anchor, Conor!" he yelled, as Sheary barely missed a stride.

"We're ready to go?"

Phil allowed himself a smirk, panting and out of breath. "Hey, you're not the only one who reads those scouting reports. They say the _Blue Jacket_ works primarily at night these days. So me an' Shearsy, we been working all day to make sure she's in shipshape. She's all ready to go, Captain."

"Perfect," Sid replied, letting go of Kessel who promptly scrambled off to help Hornqvist and Hagelin with the rigging. It was organized chaos on the deck, knowing they had only a short window to intercept the pirates. Crosby felt a thrill of adrenaline down his spine, the same feeling he got each time he was about to go into battle. The knowledge that he _might_ die tonight...but the confidence that he wasn't going to, that it would be his foes who were defeated.

"She's seen us," came the call from the lookout. "The _Blue Jacket_ is turning hard to port. She intends to run!"

"Can we catch her?"

Silence for a moment, then Kuhnhackl popped his head out of the crow's nest, looking down. Even from all the way up there, Sid could see his feral grin. "It'll be tight, but we can do it."

Letang and Crosby locked eyes for just a moment, nodding at each other, before turning back to their duties. "Come on, boys! We're gonna lose her!" Kris screamed, heading over to the helm.

Sid was heading below deck to the cannons when he felt the ship lurch, the newly raised sails catching wind. They were sailing into wind, and Sid knew his ship would be at a tremendous advantage sailing close-hauled like that compared to the larger and slower Blue Jacket. They might have the head start, but he expected the _Penguin_ to close on her quickly. Now, the weapons needed to be ready. He found Evgeni Malkin dark with gunpowder dust, adjusting cannons with Jake Guentzel as the rest of the gunner crew loaded them. "Geno?"

"We will be ready." Malkin sounded intense in his low, thick accent, and Crosby knew he was concentrating hard, the cannons needing a perfect adjustment and aim. Sid left them to their work, breathing the sea air deep as he returned above deck. He was gratified to see the Penguin had already closed a decent amount of gap with the pirate ship. Crosby reflexively checked his hip for his cutlass, and gave his flintlock and blunderbuss a quick check to ensure they were loaded correctly, the gunpowder dry.

They got closer to the _Blue Jacket_ , and Crosby could see the men beginning to line up on the deck, armed to the teeth, now with the near-certainty that the _Penguin_ was going to catch and engage them. Sid ducked back down, yelling into the hold. "Bar and chain on the front cannon?"

"Aye," yelled Geno in return. A bar and chain cannot shot was just how it sounded; instead of the typical ball, it was two halves of a ball separated by a bar or chain. They were aimed at the opposing ship's rigging, and would hopefully wrap themselves around masts and sails to disable the ship. Or at least slow it long enough for the _Penguin_ to be able to turn and fire her main cannons.

"Hold," Crosby exclaimed, waiting until they were closer, almost so close he could see the pirates' expressions on the other ship, before giving the command to fire.

As usual, Malkin's aim was excellent. One chain shot went through a sail, deflating it immediately, and a bar slammed into a mast, causing it to shatter and twist. The _Blue Jacket_ was not totally disabled, but they'd have to turn and fight; they could no longer run.

He heard Letang, up by the helm, preparing the _Penguin_ to make its own turn. "We need to board," Sid reminded him.

"Sangrenel shots prepped, captain," called one of the sailors. Sangrenel was an anti-personnel round that would be fired at the other ship, hopefully killing as many pirates as possible before they had to board and engage in hand to hand combat, which was sure to be deadly.

Crosby assessed the situation for a moment, at the position of the two ships. Due to Columbus' request for the ship to be brought back, he didn't want to fight an artillery duel if he could help it ; and based on his position upwind and the sorry state of the _Blue Jacket'_ s secondary sails, he was fairly sure he might be able to bring the _Penguin_ alongside almost immediately.

Sid nodded, the decision made. "Grapple team in place," he yelled, bending to relay his orders below deck as well. Malkin popped on deck after a moment, frowning.

"No cannons?"

"No cannons. Have your team use the sangrenel before we board."

He caught Geno's grimace before he moved to comply. There was nothing Evgeni loved more than a good cannon battle, and now they wouldn't have one.

As Sid suspected, the _Penguin_ was able to turn into position much quicker than the _Blue Jacket,_ her gun-whale hovering close to the pirates. "Grapple!" At Crosby's command, the sailors shot grappling hooks, attempting to bring the ships closer together, so the Pittsburgh navy could jump onto the other vessel. "Sangrenel!" The cannons fired, and there were a number of screams as the shrapnel hit the front line of pirates, shredding many of them.

More pirates stepped forward, and there was the loud sound of gunshots, blunderbuss and muskets. Sid heard and felt the lead balls whizz past his head, striking one of his men and killing him instantly, others embedding into the wood of the _Penguin._

"Board!" Sid ran towards the gun-whale to join his team as Pittsburgh began jumping onto the Columbus ship. His eyes widened as he saw one of the pirates with a small, on-deck cannon, aiming it towards the invading Pittsburgh Navy. He pulled up next to the cannon, across the gap between their ships, and leveled his blunderbuss, aiming at the pirate and delivering the shot before the cannon could be fired. It staggered the man, and Sid saw his arm maimed, red with blood. A moment later one of his men came along to finish the job.

By the time Sid got over onto the _Blue Jacket,_ the roar of guns and cannons had mostly faded to the clash of metal on metal as the two sides engaged, too close now for guns without potentially hitting a friendly. Crosby was an accomplished swordsman, and began the process of methodically cutting through the pirate crew alongside his mates.

Suddenly, a dagger flew past his head, and Sid jerked his head in the direction it came from. Brandon Dubinsky stood on the top deck, teeth bared, yanking at his pistol from his trousers now that his aim had failed with the dagger. Crosby knew he had only a moment to stop the shot, so he dashed up the stairs to the top deck, as fast as he could go, slamming into Dubinsky as he pulled his gun up and around, knocking it from his grasp. His parrot alighted from his shoulder at the movement, flying off.

"Fuck you!" Brandon screamed, jumping back to avoid Crosby's slash and transferring his own cutlass to his dominant hand to begin the fight.

Crosby wasn't sure how long they fought, the screams and blood and gun powder stifling around them, the sun setting further into dusk. They were the only ones on the top deck, fixed in their blood duel, and Dubinsky was a much better swordsman than Sid had expected, based on his dossier. They'd both inflicted superficial cuts to each other, but nothing yet serious, not enough to disable the other man. Was this going to go all night?

Suddenly, a cannon rocked the _Blue Jacket,_ toppling both men off their feet by the force of the impact. _What?_ Sid's first thought was that someone on his crew had badly fucked up, or a cannon misfired, but no. There was another ship pulled aside to the battle, and their flag...

Sid squinted at the colors in the increasing darkness, the name proudly emblazoned on the side. The _Marlie._ This was...Toronto? In the Canada alliance? They'd had an uneasy peace with America for the last few years. Were they coming to help finish the _Blue Jacket_ off?

"Can't finish the fight yourself, asshole?" Dubinsky spit, clambering back to his feet, obviously thinking them same thing. Suddenly, the _Marlie_ 's cannons boomed again, but this time they struck the _Penguin._ Sid saw a cannonball strike the bow, his ship shuddering precariously. There was no way that was an accidental hit. Toronto was attempting to take them both down!

Crosby turned back, eyes wide, thinking to suggest a brief alliance - _repel Canada, then continue the fight, we're both sitting ducks here otherwise_ \- but Dubinsky had other ideas, charging with cutlass swinging. Sid parried, the fight beginning anew. "We need to take this other ship down!" Crosby called desperately, narrowly avoiding an overhead swing from the other man.

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" Brandon yelled back.

"Why wouldn't I have just engaged with them immediately? What's the point of the treachery?" _Stupid man!_ Sid thought angrily, and Brandon must have read the patronizing scowl on Crosby's face. Instead of answering, he simply charged Crosby again; they had just engaged, swords clanging, when another hit from the _Marlie_ boomed across the hull. This time, both men toppled together from the upper deck, the force of the explosion causing them to miss the lower deck entirely when they fell. Sid grabbed at the deck railing futilely, losing his cutlass in the process, before plunging into the warm waters below, growing ever colder as night was falling.

Crosby bobbed back up to the surface after what seemed like forever, having plunged deep from the height of the fall, gasping for air. He saw movement in the water, a little further, but it was too dark now to see what it was. Dubinsky, he figured.

Above, he heard the din of fighting die down, and suddenly the ships began turning from each other, the _Penguin'_ s grappling hooks evidently been released. Sid assumed that Letang and Foligno had realized the danger both ships were in, had made a temporary truce, as they were both maneuvering into position to return artillery fire to the _Marlie._ But the maneuvers were bringing the ships away from Crosby, too far and too fast, and it was so dark that Sid knew he'd never be seen in the waters.

_"No!"_ he screamed, and his voice sounded tiny amongst the cannon booms. A errant cannonball landed near him, about twenty feet away, and he knew he had to get out of the area before he was hit or became too tired to swim and drowned. In the distance, he'd seen a small island as they engaged the _Blue Jacket._ With any hope, it would be inhabited, so Sid identified the dark mass of the island through the dusk and started swimming hard.

It was close to being dark when Sid finally was able to clear the breakers, exhausted, crawling up on the beach. He peered back towards the ocean but no longer saw any ships, his own or otherwise. Crosby collapsed then, panting into the sand, the waves still crashing onto his legs, before he slowly raised his upper body to take a look at his surroundings. There was a dark shape coming towards Sid, much too quickly for his liking, so he scrambled to his feet, patting his belt. Fuck, he'd dropped his cutlass when he went overboard. All he had now was his flintlock, and it was nearly guaranteed to be useless; he couldn't see how the gunpowder wasn't going to be wet. But stranger things had happened, and Sid knew that God was on his side, so he pulled out the gun and waited to be engaged.

It was so dark that he could only make out the figure once it was nearly on top of Sid, Brandon Dubinsky's scowling expression coming into view. He somehow still did have his cutlass, went right for Sid's throat.

And was stopped in his tracks by Crosby's pistol, jamming up into his neck. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, locked in a stalemate. Dubinsky's cutlass was pressed to Crosby's throat, and Sid's flintlock dug up into Brandon's jawline.

Dubinsky's eyes flared wide for a moment before relaxing in a grin. "You know that thing doesn't fuckin' work, Crosby," he crowed. "No fucking way you have dry powder in there."

"You want to bet?"

Brandon visibly hesitated. Everyone knew the story of a man who'd submerged his pistol fully in water, yet it still worked, clean as new. Of course, everyone also knew that sometimes you could load fresh, dry powder and 2 minutes later have the thing jam on you. "Are you suggesting we each lower our weapons?"

"Yes." Sid had no intention of doing that; he believed Dubinsky would cut him down at the first opportunity. _Please, God,_ he prayed. _Please, please, let this gun fire._ "Count off?"

Brandon narrowed his eyes for a long moment, obviously debating, before giving Sid a curt nod. "Fine. On 3, then. 1...2..."

Click. The sound of the flintlock's trigger being pulled seemed enormously loud on the beach, even above the waves. But nothing happened, no telltale sizzle of powder catching alight. The pistol didn't fire; it was too wet.

"You piece of shit," Brandon snarled, grabbing Sid's flintlock and tossing it away towards the surf. Sid didn't resist, just closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. He was ready to meet his maker; he just prayed that he had done enough to deserve heaven.

Instead of the killing blow, a vicious punch was landed across Sid's cheek, and he toppled to the sand, blood spilling from his nose. He looked up to the cutlass pointed threateningly at him. "Stay down," Brandon growled. "Roll on your stomach. And give me your arms. Behind your back."

Sid frowned, doing what was requested, and Brandon yanked a length of rope from his belt, began securing Crosby's hands. He was being taken hostage, he realized. Not something he ever expected from Brandon Dubinsky.

As if reading his mind, Dubinsky spit on him. "I still haven't decided if I just want to kill you, yet," he explained. "But you'll be worth a fuckton of money. Might be worth it. _Might._ You act up and I'll kill you in a second."

Brandon suddenly put two fingers to his lips, gave a high, loud whistle. There was a blur of color and his parrot came from the canopy of trees to land on his shoulder. Dubinsky grinned, stroking the colorful bird. "Good boy, Stinger."

"Hello!" The parrot responded with a squawk.

"Really, 'Stinger'?"

"Is that a fuckin' problem? On your feet, Crosby, and shut the hell up. We need to take a walk."

Sid struggled to his knees and then to a standing position, the sopping clothes and arms tied behind his back making it difficult. Brandon made no move to help. "Start walking," he instructed when Sid was on his feet. It was truly nighttime, now, but the moon was bright, and Crosby was able to mostly shuffle along the beach without tripping too much. At some point, Brandon grabbed his arms, pointed him into the trees. "This way. Through here."

"Do you know this place?" Sid approached the dark tangle of jungle with some apprehension.

"Lucky for us, I do. We have a small cache of supplies here. This is our ticket off the island." They'd only walked a few hundred yards through the forest, becoming very difficult to see as the moon was obscured by branches, but Dubinsky seemed to know the way very well. He stopped next to a non-descript thicket of brush, and pulled it back to reveal a trunk, its hinges gleaming bright in the moonlight.

Brandon bent to open the trunk, rifling through its contents, and Sid thought for only a brief second about running. With his hands tied behind his back, at night, in this jungle...there's no way he'd escape the pirate. And if he did, he'd simply starve to death here. He was not hopeful this island contained any potable water or food. Being held hostage by pirates was a terrifying thought, but there was at least a glimmer of hope, of life, and Crosby was going to hold onto that.

"Okay, back out the way you came." Dubinsky was holding a number of items, including - Sid's heart raised - a large jug. Knowing pirates, it was going to be the lowest barrel rum, but he was suddenly aware how thirsty he was.

They made it back to the beach, and Crosby sat on Brandon's command. He saw now, in the clearer moonlight, that Brandon had a small amount of fire-making supplies, and was setting to work. For how hot the days were, the nights could get surprisingly chilly, but... "Do you think that's a good idea? What if the _Marlie_ sees us?"

"We're on the opposite side of the island from the battle. Besides, does your ship investigate every small fire on an island?"

Sid conceded the point, and Brandon didn't say another word til they had a small fire going. Crosby wiggled a little closer, awkwardly dragging himself over with his feet to get some warmth. Now Dubinsky had a small sheet of parchment, a piece of soft lead, and was scribbling a note. He whistled to Stinger again, tying the note securely to the bird's foot. "Stinger, go to the Stanley."

"The Stanley! The Stanley!"

"Good boy," Brandon watched his pet take off into the darkness, flying low. He finally turned his attention to the jug, unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink. Setting it down and wiping his mouth, he made no move to offer Crosby anything; Sid could smell the booze even from where he was. After a few more long minutes, the captain was feeling a little desperate.

"Uh. Can I...have..."

"You forgetting your manners, bilge rat?"

Sid sighed, not surprised that Dubinsky was going to require submission to get a drink. "May I please have a drink, sir."

"Better," Brandon said, shuffling over and tipping a bit of drink into Sid's open mouth. Crosby couldn't help the cough, to the pirate's laughing delight. God, but it was the worst rum he'd ever had.

"The Navy makes you soft," Dubinsky sneered, taking another sip. Finally, after a long moment, he glanced back up at the captain, searchingly. "So you really didn't expect Toronto to come along?"

"Cross my heart, I did not. They were firing upon both of us, and that was no accident. It seems Canada has gone to war with us, but I was never informed."

"Well, that must be a new thing," Brandon mused, taking another drink. He was getting a little chattier as the alcohol continued to flow. "We got the latest news, docked in Phoenix the other day. No war to be heard of there."

"We need to let our people know, Dubinsky. What is the Stanley?"

"Ah." A grin split Brandon's face. "Oh, you'd get a warm welcome there, _Captain."_ Dubinsky sneered this last word, mockingly. "It's a pirate bar. Stinger knows the way, and he'll bring back my crew, if they're there. It's right by where they'll dock, to repair the ship." Dubinsky fell silent, seemingly realizing they might not even be alive, face screwed up in grief for just a moment before smoothing out. "And if they're not there...someone else. An ally."

"What if it's an enemy?"

"Stinger knows our friends."

Sid shifted. His clothes were beginning to dry, becoming stiff and gritty with sand. "And how long will it take? For Stinger to get there, and a ship to return."

"I expect we'll see rescue late tomorrow. Maybe the morning after that." Another drink, and Brandon smirked. "I wouldn't sound so eager, if I were you. I might still end up killing you. Otherwise, who knows? Let's see how much Pittsburgh pays to get you back. But if that's too much of a pain in the ass, we can always sell you into slavery. I know a man or two, would pay well for one of your build. Or..." Dubinsky's face lit up, a cruel smile settling on his features. "I also know a few brothels, would just love to have a man with your...um, _ass_ ets," Brandon laughed, obviously emphasizing the 'ass'. "They wouldn't pay near as good for you, but I tell you it might be worth it, knowing you're locked in a room getting fucked every day by pirates. That would be quite a difference from your little Navy position, eh?"

Sid carefully kept his face neutral, but was dismayed by the option. He was confident Pittsburgh would pay to get him back, but his country was all the way across the waters, and maybe the trip wouldn't be worth it. If the pirates sold him to a local slave ship, or an underground brothel, he'd never be found by anyone he knew. He'd spend the rest of his days...no. He'd fight back, and die quickly. A better option than those, at least.

"Well, get some sleep," Brandon chirped, a mocking cheerfulness. "Actually, before you do..."

Dubinsky stood up and shoved Crosby, toppling him over on the sand and using his last lash of rope to tie his feet. With all limbs tied, he was no threat to even run. "Sleep tight!" Brandon smelled like rum when he got close to finish Crosby's bonds, and was out like a light once he hit the sand, across the dying fire from the captain.

Sid twisted his face to look up at the stars, and wondered how he'd gotten himself into this mess.

~~~~~

Crosby didn't sleep well, that night. He kept waking up at everything - a loud _crack_ from the jungle, a strange bird cry, an errant snore from Dubinsky, the sun starting to peek over the horizon. His arms and shoulders ached from being tied behind his back and everything was salty from the sea and gritty from the sand.

Brandon looked like he'd suffered none of those problems. He was up as soon as the sun fully rose about the horizon, with a stretch and a yawn. As soon as he saw Crosby, he grinned, like he'd nearly forgotten the situation. "Ah, not every day you wake up to your enemy ship's captain in knots next to you. Not a bad feeling, you know."

"I wouldn't know," Sid retorted, flatly.

"That's right, you just kill us. What's the use of capturing?"

He was right, but Crosby opted to say nothing. In response, Dubinsky just spit on the charred embers of the fire, then stalked off towards the jungle without a word, leaving Sid alone on the beach.

It was starting to get hotter as the sun rose higher, with no respite from the heat here in the middle of the beach. Sid wasn't sweating very much - it was a bad sign. Dehydration. He managed to roll, with some difficulty, towards the tree line of the jungle. He'd finally rolled far enough to get some shade when Dubinsky returned, carrying something dead. He laughed when he saw Sid, his fine black-and-gold naval officer uniform covered in sand and grit and washed-up seaweed. Even Crosby's mouth was caked with sand.

"That looks uncomfortable," Dubinsky noted, dryly, smirking. He held up what Sid recognized now as a mongoose. In his other hand was a good bundle of firewood and a crude, pre-made spit. "Set up a trap overnight, caught some breakfast. Well, for me. Maybe you get some, if you're a good boy. Gotta stay healthy for that slave ship, you know!"

Crosby grit his teeth. He knew Brandon was just trying to rile him up with the slave threats, but it was surprisingly effective. There were few things Sid dreaded more than that. He'd seen how those ships and slave traders operated, had always been dismayed at the conditions of the poor souls trapped in that life.

"Do you know how to build a fire? Does the Navy teach you that shit, or are you that soft?"

Sid's eyes widened at the question. "Of course, but - I can't, like this."

"No shit." Brandon was in the middle of skinning the mongoose, and tapped his bloody knife against his knee, looking thoughtful. "I could remove the leg bonds, and retie your hands in front of you. It'd be annoying, but you could build a fire that way. It would save a lot of time. I'm fucking hungry. Plus, if you decide you want to get uppity, and try abso-fuckin-lutely _anything,_ I get the pleasure of killing you. So it sounds like a win-win to me."

"I won't try anything."

"Sure," Brandon snorted, setting down the kill to move over and redo the ropes. "You also said we'd lower our weapons on the count of three, and then you pulled the fucking trigger, so excuse me if your word don't mean shit right now." Sid remained compliant as Brandon retied his hands in front of him, then undid the ropes holding his legs. He sat up and flexed, stretching as best he could. Everything hurt. He reached for the rum jug and got it snatched away from under him, Brandon taking a long drink and dangling it, mockingly, just out of reach.

Crosby leveled a glare at the pirate. "May I please have a drink."

Silence, just a lifted eyebrow. Sid sighed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "...sir."

The rum jug was stuck in the sand next to him, and Crosby took a long drink, relishing the sensation of liquid hitting his parched throat, even if that liquid burned and twisted in his gut at the end. He stifled a cough as he put the jug down and went to work building a fire, using the flint and steel and wood that Brandon had brought back with him. Sid had always made it a priority to get very good at survival skills, and despite not getting good striking leverage on the flint with his hands tied, the fire caught relatively quickly. He nurtured the fire along with the smallest of twigs, building slowly to larger and larger pieces until the fire was crackling away merrily. It would make a decent cooking fire, but unfortunately, was adding to the heat of the day. Crosby scooted backwards a little, watched by the sharp eye of Dubinsky to ensure he wasn't running.

Brandon dug a few quick holes to anchor the spit, then started draping the meat carefully on top of the poles. He flicked his eyes at Crosby in between watching the food cook. "So I take it Columbus wants our ship back. Else you would have just sunk us, I imagine."

Sid remained silent for a long moment, but decided it couldn't hurt to tell the truth. "They do. We'll sink you if we have to, but we'd prefer to take the ship back with us."

"Mmm, and kill as many of us as possible while doing so?"

"Well," Crosby frowned. "Of course, if you surrender...lay down your arms, we won't kill you."

Brandon laughed, turning the meat over. "Ah, and what then, deliver us back to Columbus? So they can hang us? No, that's quite alright. We'll go down fighting, thanks very much."

"I'm not sure what you expected, Dubinsky. You're the ones that stole the ship. You're the ones that turned outlaw."

"I guess it never occurred to you to ask why."

"It's not our duty to ask why. It's our duty to uphold the law."

Brandon scowled, rubbing his brow for a moment. "Just don't think Columbus gets out of this smelling like roses. A lot of us...they fucked us out of our pay and pensions. Bullshit made-up stories about war crimes and - shit _they_ ordered us to do! And we did it, but then we go to join America and suddenly it's, hey thanks for your service, but you don't really fit the story we're tryin' to present to this bullshit alliance so you're out on your ass." Dubinsky looked stony as he started pulling the meat from the spit, onto a long, flat leaf that acted as a plate. "My wife, my son...they had to start begging. Accepting charity, while I was off tryin' to make some money. We were _depending_ on that pay. We had nothin'. So they begged, had to practically live on the filthy streets, they caught sick, and..."

Brandon roughly shoved over a leaf of food, scraps compared to the best cuts he kept for himself, but Sid was grateful to even have that. He accepted, awkwardly, since his hands were still tied. "Did they...uh...?"

"Die? Yeah, they're dead. They're both fuckin' dead, and it's Columbus' fault." He stared at Crosby, eyes narrowed. "So you'll excuse me if I have zero goddamn sympathy when we raid merchant ships heading off to make those countries fatter and richer. _Zero."_

They ate in silence for a long moment. Sid had to creatively eat around a few bones, sucking the meat out, but it was delicious and he couldn't complain, except for wanting a bit more. Only once his hunger had reduced slightly from an angry gnaw did he ask further : "Those merchant ships are staffed by men that just want to feed their families, too. They have no association with the men that hurt you. Don't you feel bad for them?"

"We never kill anyone that surrenders. We're gonna shoot til you stop puttin' up a fight. Then take what we want and leave them with their lives. I know you probably encounter a lot of real bad pirates, Crosby, but the _Blue Jacket_ and her crew are not one of them."

Sid grunted, non-committal. "You don't believe me," Brandon said, and it was more a statement than a question. "Can't you see where I'm coming from? Don't you have anyone you love, that you can imagine if it happened to you..."

Crosby just shook his head. "No. Parents died when I was young. I became a powder boy in the Navy at about eight years old and worked my way up."

"Nobody you love?"

"I love my crew."

Brandon snorted, wiping away some juices that dribbled down his chin. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me. You seem the type to love nobody except the Navy. Like you're some sort of Kraken that exists only to take down ships."

Sid just shrugged, pushing away the leaf, his meal finished. He took a long drink of the rum, feeling a little buzzed now. Brandon looked about the same, slightly drunk. He squinted at Sid appraisingly.

"Well, then. Tell me a tale, eh?"

Crosby looked at Brandon skeptically, over top of the rum jug. "A tale? What sort of tale?"

"I don't give a shit. Anything. We have at best half a day til we're rescued, and we can't do fuck-all til then. Entertain me, Crosby."

So, Sid talked, even as both men got drunker and drunker on rum. He had a strong feeling that Dubinsky wasn't much of a reader, so he opted for a retelling of _Oliver Twist_. Sid had always particularly liked the novel, with its orphan protagonist and uncharitable depiction of criminal gangs and their societal ills. Brandon mostly listened with some interest, until Sid finished and started in on his critical analysis of the story.

"It's a classic good versus evil tale," he told Dubinsky. "And of course, good always wins out."

Brandon snorted. "Except it doesn't. And things are not nearly so black and white. I can tell, you like to think of yourself as the good and us as the evil. Don't fucking flatter yourself." He took one last swig of the rum, critically eyeing the bottle. "Rescue better come soon. We're gonna be out before nightfall at this rate."

"Ugh." Sid flopped back down on the sand. His head buzzed; it wasn't often he drank such shit rum and in such large quantities. The telling of the tale left his throat sore and with a bigger headache than he might normally have had.

"A nap does sound like a good idea. Hold still." Brandon was retying his feet together.

"You don't have to - "

"Like hell I do." Dubinsky lifted an eyebrow. "Don't think we're buddies or anything jus' because we're talkin'. I'll still kill you in a second, and piss on you while you bleed out in the sand. Just start shit, Crosby, I beg you." Brandon stepped back to admire his handiwork. "Nothin'? No retort? Okay then. Sleep tight." And, just like before, Dubinsky was out in record time. Sid just hoped that maybe he could actually sleep.

~~~~~

And so the afternoon dragged on with rum, naps, conversation, and more rum. At one point, Dubinsky tied down Crosby so he could go take a dip in the ocean, laughing and kicking up surf in the confident manner of a man who knew he'd be rescued by friends. Sid wasn't sure he could do the same even if he were untied; the thought of imminently boarding a pirate ship as a prisoner was an extremely unattractive prospect.

Maybe getting better than marooned and starving to death. But not by much.

They had just run out of rum and the sun was starting to dip a little; it had been almost a day since the _Penguin_ had spotted the _Blue Jacket,_ engaged in that fateful battle. But now there was a ship on the horizon. Brandon spotted it as well, squinting in the distance, not having a spyglass on him. He quickly realized the ship did not fit the profile of the _Blue Jacket_ and his mood quickly soured to irritation.

"If I've found out your crew sunk my ship," he seethed, "Then hell with the hostage. It will be my pleasure to kill you."

The ship drew closer, and Sid's heart sank as he was finally able to make out the colors. The colorful red-and-blue eagle came into focus, flag flying high and proud atop the _Capital._ Here, too, was another ship stolen from its country - Washington - and turned pirate. Or, "stolen", Crosby thought with a snort. Sid and many others speculated that the _Capital_ was actually operating with the full blessing of Washington; unofficially, of course. Officially, they were outlaws. The ship had simply managed to evade and successfully fight back too many times for them to not have some sort of state support.

That meant that the _Capital_ was one of their oldest foes. He and Captain Alexander Ovechkin had battled hard and often, neither crew ever getting the final upper hand on the other. Ovechkin was going to be thrilled to have Crosby in shackles on his ship. Sid thought very seriously now about charging Dubinsky, forcing the other man to kill him. He felt like his chances of getting keelhauled to death on Ovechkin's ship was rather high.

Brandon seemed to recognize the look on Sid's face. "Let me guess, this crew isn't your biggest fan."

"If you want to hostage me, Dubinsky, you're going to have to keep me safe. Ovechkin will kill me at his first opportunity."

"Captain Ovechkin likes _money_ over anything else, even revenge. Besides, you're my prisoner. I decide what gets done with you."

Sid fell silent, skeptical, and they didn't say anything else until the _Capital_ drew close, anchoring off shore. A small boat was cast off, rowing towards the beach. Brandon hailed them, helping to pull the vessel up onto the beach and secure it from drifting.

"Dubinsky," nodded the pirate in front, stepping off and grabbing the _Blue Jacket_ crewman in a tight handshake.

"Carlson," Brandon greeted in return. "I 'ppreciate you comin' to pick me up."

"Well, you did the same for Niskanen, a few months back, eh? Glad to return the favor. Oh, I believe this belongs to you?" A bird emerged from the small ship to land on Brandon's shoulder.

"Stinger! Good boy!" Dubinsky looked delighted, pulling a piece of meat from his pocket, leftover from earlier in the day. The parrot nibbled at his fingers a moment before grabbing the morsel and setting about devouring it. By this time, Carlson had spotted Crosby, standing a ways back with his hands tied in front of him, and started laughing.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Aye. Crosby, from the _Penguin."_

"Jesus, how'd you manage that? And what are you going to do with him?"

"It's a long story," Brandon said, jerking his chin at Sid, an indication to come closer. "Unsure the plan yet. Possibly ransom, or selling him into slavery? Money is money. But maybe your Captain would like to pay me for the pleasure of killing him."

"You'll have to run it by the boss," Carlson shrugged. "Would be fun to see, though."

Dubinsky turned towards Crosby, eyes narrowing at the captain. Sid could see his cruel scowl, a mask put on for the benefit of his fellow scoundrels. "Let's go, scum," he announced, yanking out his cutlass, threateningly. "On the boat, _now."_

Sid pretended to cringe away, and slunk towards the boat. Maybe if had made Dubinsky look good in front of his fellow pirates, he'd be a little more lenient and good-natured towards Crosby's eventual fate. He caught Brandon's eye as he scurried past, submissively, and the mask was still on, but there was an appreciative crinkling around his mouth now at Crosby's gesture.

"You got him running," he heard Carlson chuckling behind him. Dubinsky said something in return, but the words were swallowed by the sound of the waves crashing on the beach as Sid approached the boat, was roughly yanked in by the other members of the _Capital_ crew that were sent to retrieve the two men.

Crosby watched as Brandon and the _Capital_ pirate - "Carlson", whoever that was - headed back towards the beach, grabbing the items that Brandon had retrieved from the trunk and disappearing into the jungle, obviously to return them. They returned a short while later, with Carlson heading straight back to the boat and Dubinsky veering off for some detour.

"Lookitchu," Carlson sneered at Crosby as he climbed aboard. "We're gonna have a lot of fun with you, _Captain._ You should have had the good sense to die in battle. Now it's gonna be much worse for you."

"And what's your name, pirate?"

"Carlson. John Carlson."

Sid nodded slowly. "Always good to have an accurate name count of the pirates I'm going to kill later."

John snarled, leaning in to deliver a backhand to Crosby. The force of it bumped him into the pirate behind him, who roughly shoved him forward again. "Your tongue is going to get you into a lot of trouble, boy," Carlson warned.

"Look what I found washed up on the beach!" Brandon had returned, was hopping into the boat with a hat firmly planted on his head. Sid's eyes widened; it was his own smart black-and-gold naval tricorne. The gold was a bit smudged and dirty, and there was a few strands of seaweed wrapped amongst the fine tasseling. But it was definitely his. "How do I look?"

The pirates in the boat laughed as they pulled up the lines securing them to the beach, the vessel beginning to float back out to sea. "Like a real asshole," John grinned, and laughed again.

As they approached the pirate ship, word seemed to filter through the crew that Sidney Crosby was captured and on board the transport boat, as more and more faces appeared, looking down on the approaching vessel. Sid could hear the murmuring and laughing even from here. One of the pirates grappled them onto the main ship, yanking at a ladder. "You first," Carlson yelled to Sid over the crashing waves.

Crosby held up his bound hands, and John yanked out a dagger, shredding the rope, then placing the blade against Sid's neck. "Don't get cute. Up."

Sid started climbing. He eyed the ocean briefly; perhaps he could jump. But what would he do then? Someone would simply shoot him, leaving his body for the fish. There's no way he could swim far or fast enough to get to safety. So he sighed, continued up the swaying rope ladder towards his fate. 

He was met with swords and guns drawn as he climbed up onto the deck, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender as he stood up. From the left, he heard a great, booming laughter, and glanced over at the sound. Alex Ovechkin was having a grand time, looking absolutely delighted.

"Sidney Crosby! On my ship! I never thought I'd see the day. Figured you'd rather die than be captured. I guess I was wrong about you. Ah, and Mr. Dubinsky, the man of the hour."

Crosby glanced behind him; Brandon had climbed up on deck now, and tipped Sid's tricorne in the direction of the pirate captain. "Captain Ovechkin. A pleasure to see you again, sir."

"Nice hat," Alex grinned. "It's getting dark out here. Perhaps we could convene in my cabin for a bit. Get you a drink. Discuss the matters at hand." He flicked his eyes over to Sid before dragging them back to Dubinsky, eyebrow raised.

"I'd welcome that drink, Captain Ovechkin."

"Ah." Alex waved his hand away. "Call me Alex. Boys! Show Mr. Dubinsky and our... _honored guest,_ to my cabin. Get Brandon a drink. I'll be along shortly."

"Walk." Someone poked Sid in the back with a flintlock, and Crosby recognized the voice from their ship's battles throughout the year.

"They have you doing the grunt work of escorting prisoners, now, Oshie?"

TJ Oshie just laughed, digging the barrel into Sid's skin to prod him to go faster. "Oh, I volunteered for this. I just had to see Sidney Crosby in chains. Down the steps."

Crosby descended the stairs and, at Oshie's directions, ended up in what was obviously the captain's cabin. It was huge and gaudy, decked out in baubles and finery. _Tacky,_ Sid thought to himself; but then, look at the owner. TJ marched him over to a sturdy rafter near the wall, with chains dangling from the wooden beam. He leaned up to make a few quick adjustments, pushed Sid so he was facing the front of the cabin, and started securing the manacles.

Brandon, for his part, was invited to sit at a long desk, lit with lamps, and offered a glass of some clear liquid, which was accepted. Sid's heart ached at the sight of the worktable, laden with maps and drawings and scrolls. It reminded him of his own chambers, the scouting reports and data he so loved. Something he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.

"What is this?" Brandon had taken a sip, was staring at the glass in confusion. "Thought it might be gin, but...ain't like no gin I've ever tasted."

"Tequila," TJ told him. "Just got it in a recent raid. The Captain's quite proud of it." Oshie stepped back to admire his handiwork. Sid stood by the wall, hands chained and dangling up around his ears. He gave them an experimental tug ; the shackles clanked together noisily, but didn't give at all.

"Nice job, TJ. Thank you," Alex strode into the room, still grinning. "You may take your leave, now."

Oshie ducked his head in acknowledgement, and with one last glance at Crosby, was out the door, closing it behind him.

"So, what do you think of the tequila?" Ovechkin picked up his own glass which had been left for him, raised it up to swirl the clear liquid around. "Very interesting, no?"

"It's delicious. Appreciate the hospitality, Cap - uh, Alex."

"Cheers." Ovechkin lifted his glass, clinking it with Brandon's, and both pirates took a long drink. Stinger squawked and whistled as Dubinsky tipped the alcohol back.

"First things first," Alex started, pulling out his huge, plush chair to take a seat. "You should know, your ship is fine. Some casualties, but otherwise alive and well." Sid saw Brandon's shoulders slump in relief. "She limped back to port early this morning. Gonna need some work, won't be ready to sail for at least a week, maybe two. As for the _Penguin..."_ Both men gave a sideways glance towards Crosby. "Your crews teamed up to take down the _Marlie._ They weren't in any position to fight afterwards, neither of ya were, so they fled. Nobody quite knows where they are now."

Crosby sent a quick prayer of thanks skyward. His ship and crew lived. He may be here, but they were safe, and in the good hands of Kris Letang.

"So, tell me, Brandon. How did you end up with Crosby as your prisoner? Captain Foligno tells me that one minute you were aboard the _Blue Jacket,_ locked in a duel. The next, you're here. I'm ever so interested to hear the in-betweens."

Dubinsky nodded, launching into the story. It was a bit trumped up in parts, made Brandon seem more competent and braver than he had been, and conveniently left off that the two men had spent their day engaged in conversation and being generally friendly, or at least non-hostile. But otherwise it was mostly accurate. When Brandon got to the part about Sid pulling the trigger, both men paused to stare at Crosby for a second, obviously disgusted. Like _he _was the bad guy in this situation and not the _pirates.___

__"So what are you going to do with him?" Alex asked, finishing off the last of his tequila._ _

__"I know Pittsburgh will pay a good ransom for him. The question is whether I wanna go through the trouble. Maybe I just sell him off into slavery, be done with him."_ _

__"Carlson tells me you might be willing to sell him to me."_ _

__Brandon lifted his eyebrows, glancing over at Sid. "Well, as with everything, all depends on the price. What are you thinking of doing with him, if y'don't mind me asking?"_ _

"Good question." Alex got to his feet, wandering over to Crosby, who curled his lip in distaste at the approaching pirate. "Haven't quite decided yet. But probably I'd give him to a few of the boys as reward for good behavior." Ovechkin grabbed Crosby's chin, pinching his jaw and forcing Sid's mouth open, making an interested noise. "Oh yeah, they'll _love_ him. Once they're done fucking him, maybe give him the keelhaul treatment, then cut his head off and stick it on a pike?" Crosby shook his head out of Alex's grasp, teeth bared. "Or maybe we just put him to work on the ship, and the second he steps toe over the line he gets sweated. I mean, there's so many options."

__"Go fuck yourself, Ovechkin." He was fighting to keep his expression proud, angry, but not scared. Ovechkin snorted back a giggle, so he knew he was probably doing a poor job at it, felt his hands clammy and cold with fear. If Dubinsky sold him to the _Capital,_ his future was bleak. He couldn't decide which was worse. Keelhauling would have the crew tie him to a rope and drag him under the ship, one side to the other, slowly drowning, being cut to ribbons by the sharp barnacles attached to the hull. Sweating would have them tie Sid to the mast, where they'd surround him in a circle with pikes, hooks, daggers, anything sharp. He'd be forced to "dance" and run in circles to avoid being skewered, and would likely do so until he collapsed from exhaustion and a thousand small cuts, where they'd kill him. They were the worst deaths and torture that pirates had in their arsenal. He only hoped that Brandon felt a small amount of empathy for him, after the day spent together swapping stories about their lives._ _

__Instead, Brandon turned to Alex, who had wandered back over to the table. "And how much are you planning to offer?"_ _

__So much for empathy._ _

__"Ah, let's not negotiate on an empty glass." Ovechkin yelled for more tequila, which was swiftly brought in. Only when his glass was filled and he took another sip did he continue. "Let's say...200 pieces of eight."_ _

"200?" Brandon scowled, looking a little insulted. "That's the price for an adult female slave. This is _Sidney Crosby."_

__"225."_ _

__"You know, Edmonton ransomed Connor McDavid for 1200 pieces of eight."_ _

__"That's just a rumor," Alex protested. "And 'sides, McDavid is younger and already a better sailor than Crosby."_ _

__"Maybe a better sailor, but not a better captain."_ _

__"Well, you ain't gettin' 1200 from me, I'll tell you that. 300. 's my last offer."_ _

Brandon swirled the clear liquid in his glass thoughtfully. "Maybe we compromise. 150 pieces of eight and you get to flog him." He stood up, walking over to a rack of cat o'nine tails that Sid hadn't even noticed. There were multiple flogs to choose from; some had little fishhooks at the end, others had tiny musket balls, like you'd load into a flintlock. And the choices went on. What sick shit was Ovechkin into? "It certainly looks like you have some tastes for whipping. Have some fun with him. But you can't kill him. He survives, and comes with me. So long as he's up on his feet and able to move around by the time the _Blue Jacket_ is fixed and pushes back out of port, he's all yours. That gives him, what, one or two weeks to recover?"

__Instead of answering, Alex stalked over to the door. He murmured something to the pirate stationed outside, and a few moments later a new man walked through the door._ _

__"Brandon, this is our surgeon, Nicklas Backstrom."_ _

__The two men shook hands, and Alex continued. "Nick, I need your expert medical opinion. If I want to flog a man...I mean, really make him hate his life. Pray for death, piss himself, scream until he's hoarse, that kind of thing. But still live, and be recovered in, say, one to two weeks. Which cat o'nine should I use, and how many lashes?"_ _

__"Hmm." Backstrom kneeled down to inspect the floggers and their ends, rolling a few options between his fingertips before selecting one with knotted and tarred ropes at the end. "This one. 20 lashes."_ _

Sid hoped the room could not hear his sharp intake of breath. _Twenty?_ The worst Naval punishment he'd ever seen was a man given ten. He was still a young powder boy at the time, was brought on deck to watch, to "learn" as the captain told him, about loyalty and respect and obedience and what happened when those weren't followed. He still remembered the man's screams, his back red and wet, how he couldn't stand once they'd released him from where he was tied.

__Backstrom's answer seemed to satisfy Ovechkin. "Thank you, Nick, you can go now." He waited til the door was closed to make his counteroffer : "100 pieces of eight."_ _

__"125."_ _

"125... _and_ I get the hat."

__Brandon removed the tricorne from his head, obviously debating, before tossing it to Ovechkin with a grin. "Deal."_ _

__"Deal!" shrieked his parrot, bobbing his head up and down._ _

__Alex popped it onto his head, making a few adjustments til he was satisfied, then clasped Brandon's hand in a firm shake. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Dubinsky. I can understand why you'd want to keep him for yourself, however."_ _

__Brandon just smiled. "The hat looks great on you," he said in response, and Alex threw back his head and laughed._ _

__"Come, a toast! Let me show you our stores. We raided three whole barrels from the last merchant ship we ran across..."_ _

Crosby slumped down, chains jangling as the pair walked out the door, having the time of their lives. Watching two men bid for your life was an experience he hoped never to have again. And, although the worst outcome did not come to pass, Sid still wouldn't classify the situation as _good,_ in any shape or form.

__His shoulders were just starting to ache, and he was getting antsy - would they leave him here all night? - when two men opened the door, heading for Sid. One held a flintlock, keeping it trained on the captain. "We're bringing you to the brig," one of them said. "Try anything, and we have orders to shoot."_ _

__Crosby allowed them to undo the manacles, shuffling forward when prodded. He thought long and hard about "trying anything" - just have them shoot, and it would all be over. But it was a coward's way out. Tomorrow meant terrible pain, but he'd still live afterwards, and hopefully get ransomed back to Pittsburgh, where he could continue his life's work of eliminating every pirate on the seas._ _

He was going to relish the look on Ovechkin's face when the _Penguin_ sank his ship.

__The brig was a series of cold cages, each barely long enough to lay down, and Sid was shoved roughly into the first one, the door closed and locked behind him. It was dark down here, in the hold, and he was alone; no other prisoners. A single torch flickered gently, not nearly enough light for the space. There was a single hay bale, but the straw was filthy. He opted to curl on the floor, tucking his chilled fingers under his armpits._ _

__He had just managed to doze off when heavy footsteps announced a presence. Another pirate that Crosby didn't recognize was holding a bowl, and he shoved the dish through a small opening in the cage. It was some sort of food; chilly, tasteless lumps of some kind of meat, and a bit of grog. No utensils were provided, so he wiped his fingers on the hay bale as he ate. It couldn't get any filthier, he supposed._ _

__Sid had barely finished eating when he pushed aside the bowl, grabbed the piss bucket in the corner, and promptly emptied his stomach contents. He puked until there was nothing left, just bile and liquid, dry heaving and feeling sicker than he'd been in a long, long time. He was still holding onto the bucket, cheek pressed against the bars, when another figure cast a shadow on the cage. Crosby glanced up, blearily; he'd been so out of it, he hadn't even noticed anyone coming down the steps._ _

__It was Dubinsky. Brandon was flushed red with drink, grinning a big, three sheets to the wind kind of smile. "You owe me one."_ _

"Huh?" Sid wiped his mouth, stomach still quivering dangerously. "I - I _owe_ you? For what? My torture tomorrow?"

"It could have been torture _then_ death," Dubinsky shot back. "You could be entertaining half the men on the ship right now with your body, and then once they're done using every single hole of yours they'd keelhaul you. I don't think the Navy keelhauls men, so let me tell you, Crosby; I've seen it. You never forget it. Somethin' that should be reserved for the worst scoundrels." He snorted. "Then again, maybe that's you. You are the one broke his word, tried to shoot me."

__"Keelhaul!" shrieked Stringer, and Sid wondered exactly why the bird understood that word._ _

__"Well. Thanks, I guess."_ _

__Brandon blinked, looking surprised at Sid's words. "Uh, 'scuse me, I hear you correctly? You said thanks?"_ _

__"Yes." Sid dry heaved again, once; paused to make sure his stomach was going to cooperate before continuing. "You're right. You could have just sold me. I'm grateful that you didn't. Why?"_ _

"Really, I dunno. The ransom is gonna be good, but 300 pieces of eight is a very fair price for you to not be my fuckin' problem any more." Brandon leaned a little closer. "The key is, Crosby, not to make me ask _why._ Else that question might just turn into _why not."_ And with that, he was gone.

__~~~~~_ _

__The next morning came too quickly. Sid had managed to fall asleep in fits and bursts after his stomach finally settled down, and was snoring on the cold floor when something started banging on the cage. Jerking up, he saw Oshie smacking a tin cup on the bars, laughing._ _

__"Up and at 'em, Crosby. It's your big day. You got 5 minutes."_ _

__Sid wiped his eyes, suddenly not feeling very sleepy anymore. He spent his five minutes sitting, cross-legged on the floor, hands clasped on his lap in prayer._ _

_Lord, give me the strength..._

__Too soon, they came to collect him. Much like last night, there was a gun trained on him, and he was forced to climb the stairs to the top deck. It seemed the entire ship was out here to watch the spectacle. To Sid's surprise, they were still in the middle of the ocean._ _

__Dubinsky emerged from the stairs right after him, and seemed to echo Crosby's surprise. "I figured we'd go right to the Stanley," he murmured to Oshie._ _

__"Your ship was pretty banged up. Need to swing by Dallas for supplies."_ _

__Crosby was stripped naked down to the waist and led to the main mast, arms secured tightly around it. He heard, rather than saw, Alex Ovechkin arriving, with the murmur of the crew getting louder and then Ovechkin's voice cutting through the din : "Welcome, boys! Who's excited to see the Navy get what's coming to them?"_ _

Cheers and hoots and hollering split the air. Crosby glanced up, saw Dubinsky and the surgeon from last night, Nick Backstrom, settling in to the crowd, right in his sight line. He caught Brandon's eye for a moment ; the _Blue Jacket_ crew member was smirking.

There was no indication of when the first blow was coming, with Alex behind him, so it was a shock, white-hot pain scorching down his back, the _crack_ of the whip snapping through the air. The crowd cheered in response. The third blow brought a vicious wave of nausea, and he fought off puking all the way up to the seventh blow, his stomach already empty but bringing up more liquid. Thus far he hadn't screamed, and it seemed to enrage Ovechkin, the blows getting harder, if possible. Ten and eleven had him bite back the screams, coming out as just loud grunts, and finally at twelve he tipped his head back to the heavens and howled in agony.

__"Fucking finally! Scream for me, Crosby," he heard Alex behind him, but his voice sounded like it was underwater, a million miles away. At fourteen, his head started spinning like he was drunk, and he remembered fifteen, then sixteen before he awoke, kneeling on the deck. He'd passed out; his neck was killing him. He must have smashed his face into the mast as he went down._ _

__"Get him up. Secure his feet," Alex roared, and two sailors moved to prop him back up, begin tying his legs to the mast so he couldn't faint to the floor again. As they were doing so, he caught Dubinsky's eye once more. The man's smirk was gone, wiped from his face, and if anything, he looked disturbed. He held his parrot in his hand, stroking him in what looked like a nervous tic. Next to him, Backstrom was watching closely, his mouth a thin, grim line. They were surrounded by jeering, laughing men, their expressions unique amongst the crowd._ _

__There were four more blows to go, and by the time Ovechkin finished, he was a drooling, crying, screaming mess. The rope pulled taut, burning on his stretched limbs as they kept him in place to the mast; he could no longer stand properly under his own power. "Pickle him," Sid heard Alex command, and all he could do was moan in protest, couldn't even brace himself for the wave of vinegar dumped on his back which drew a fresh, agonized yowl out of him._ _

There was a face in front of him then, a grinning jackal that he couldn't properly look at, his eyes refusing to focus. It was Ovechkin, by the sound of the voice : "I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did," he announced, smugly. "And I enjoyed that very much, _Captain."_

__And then Alex was gone, the crowd moving off; but nobody moved to cut him down. Crosby drifted in and out of feverish consciousness, the sun beating down, the waves occasionally depositing a bit of salt which caused him to groan. His tongue felt thick and bloated, even as someone came to offer him a bit of grog from time to time._ _

"What's wrong with him?" Sid recognized the voice, turned his head sluggishly towards it. Somehow, it was nighttime, now ; at least, he thought it was. Everything was dark. Maybe he was dying, instead. The figure slowly came into focus. Kris...Letang?

"Kris? What are you doing here?" Crosby tried to ask, but couldn't get his mouth to work.

__"Just not up to snuff. Bad captain," the second figure responded. Evgeni Malkin. He whimpered, tried to protest, to explain he never meant to get captured, never meant to leave them alone._ _

__"You can say that again," and suddenly there was a third figure. "He left me. I could be dead somewhere."_ _

"Marc," Crosby cried out at the sight of his old friend, Fleury. "Marc, I'm so sorry. God, Marc, _I'm sorry._ Please forgive me."

__Brandon Dubinsky glanced over at Nick Backstrom. The pair were standing next to Sid, watching him babble deliriously, obviously seeing fever visions. "I'm no doc, but this don't really seem good."_ _

__"No," Nick agreed. "He's not doing well. The Captain has agreed to let me cut him down and bring him to my room. I was the one who made the suggestion on type of flogger and amount of blows; this is my fault." He glanced over at Brandon. "I would appreciate your assistance in the matter."_ _

__Between the two men, they were able to cut him down from the mast and carry him below deck. Backstrom had his own room; a rarity amongst pirate crews, but his room also acted as the med station. A blood-splattered surgical table was pushed against the wall, and there was a second bed, which Sid was laid down on, stomach-first. Brandon stuck around to hand over gauze and alcohol to Backstrom as he cleaned out Sid's wounds, dressed them as best he could. Sid muttered and whimpered and cried out, occasionally thrashing before settling down to a fitful rest._ _

__Finally, they were done, and Backstrom dunked his blood-soaked hands in a bucket of water on the floor to wash them. "Come back tomorrow. We'll change the bandages."_ _

__For the next few days, Brandon spent a lot of time in Nick's room, changing bandages, washing sheets - which Crosby always promptly sweated through - trying to coax him to wake for just a moment to feed him water. It was ugly work, and Dubinsky regretted agreeing to Ovechkin's request, even as the payment sat heavy against his thigh. He supposed he didn't owe Sid anything, could leave Nick to do the work himself; but he told himself he had an investment to take care of. An investment, like a sick horse, something that was worth money, would be costly if it died._ _

Not that he cared about Crosby, or anything, whether he lived or died as a person. It was just the money. Backstrom, at least, was decent company, until Brandon could get back on the _Blue Jacket._

__The pair were sharing a small bottle of rum in Nick's room when Sid groaned. Both men ignored it, for the moment; Crosby groaning and muttering was a constant noise for the last few days. But then there was movement that wasn't just feverish thrashing, pulling up onto his elbows and staring blearily at the room. "Wha...what..."_ _

__"Oh shit," Brandon said, both men jumping to their feet, rum forgotten about for the moment. "He's awake."_ _

__"How do you feel?" Nick touched Sid's face to assess temperature with a gentleness that betrayed his non-pirate background._ _

__"Like shit," Sid muttered, drawing snickers from the other two men. He narrowed his eyes once he caught sight of Dubinsky. "What are you doing here? Disappointed that I'm not dead?"_ _

__Brandon set his jaw in annoyance. He'd done everything for Sid over the past few days, and was greeted by this as thanks. Fuck this guy. "Just making sure my investment is in good enough position to sell," he snapped, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Stinger, who had been asleep in the room's rafters, shrieked and flew out after his master._ _

__"You shouldn't piss him off, you know," Nick told him, having procured a wet cloth and wiping down Sid's face, which still burned hot. "He's been a big help these past few days. Not sure you woulda made it without him. Plus, doesn't he hold your fate in his hands?"_ _

__"I wouldn't be laying here half-dead if it weren't for him, either."_ _

__"I suppose that's true. But you piss him off enough, he'll just sell you to a slave ship." Nick clicked his tongue in sadness, inspecting Sid's back. "I suppose your back can't look any worse even if that does happen. I'd suggest not letting any potential suitors see you from behind without a shirt from now on. There will be major scarring."_ _

__"Potential suitors? That won't be a problem," Sid muttered into the blankets._ _

__"I'm sorry, you know." Nick drew back, looking troubled. "I forgot...the Captain, he has an exceptionally hard and accurate shot. I didn't think - just...I'm sorry."_ _

__Sid grunted in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything._ _

"We're heading back from Dallas now," Backstrom explained. "Soon, we'll be landed in - uh - well, they said I shouldn't tell you exactly where. But we'll have the supplies to fix the _Blue Jacket._ You'll be transferred to her, and they can start negotiating your ransom."

__"Oh good," Sid drolled flatly. "I'm not sure which is better; being a prisoner on this ship, or Dubinsky's."_ _

"Well, I hear Captain Foligno is an honorable man, and - " Nick was cut off by a _boom,_ the ship shuddering dangerously. There was a sliver of silence, then a great din as men shouted and yelled, jumping to work stations. Crosby heard Ovechkin stalking down the hallway, already barking orders, heading to the main deck.

__"I'd better go," Nick said, and hurried out the door, leaving Sid alone._ _

Crosby knew instinctively that he still could not stand properly, that he was useless in whatever was happening outside. A fragile beacon of hope shined in his chest, that it was his crew, somehow they'd found him, were putting up a fight to get him back. But he knew the sound of his own cannons, and these weren't it. In fact, he'd never heard cannons like these before. All potential was dashed as he caught snippets of the yelling. From what he could make out, it was the _Senator,_ one of the flagships of the Ottawa Navy.

__First Toronto, now Ottawa. What on Earth was Canada up to?_ _

__The ship trembled again, and then another explosion. Crosby expected the ship to begin turning, getting into position to fire cannons. Instead, he felt the ship jolt forward; they were raising sails._ _

The _Capital_ was running.

__Sid frowned, frustrated that he couldn't move or figure out what was going on. Ovechkin was notorious for taking on a fight, running only when absolutely necessary. Now, the ship hadn't even engaged, and he had already decided to retreat. What was happening?_ _

With the _Capital_ fleeing the scene, there were no more cannon shots or explosions. Sid listened carefully for 10, 15 minutes; there was still shouting above-deck, but it was not the frantic yelling of a war scene. They must have escaped, started triaging the damage.

__The door flew open; Backstrom appeared, harried and stressed-looking. Sid didn't even have time to ask the news before he grabbed as many bandages as he could stuff into his pockets, along with an ugly-looking machete that Sid instinctively knew was for amputations, and was out the door again._ _

__"Fuck," he muttered; the damage must have been worse than he'd thought. But the ship had only been hit by two cannonballs. How much personnel damage could it have caused?_ _

__Crosby was just falling into a fitful doze for lack of anything better to do when the door swung open again. It was Dubinsky; he was covered in blood, and looked shell-shocked._ _

__"What the fuck happened?" Sid tried to keep his voice calm, mostly failing._ _

"It was - Ottawa. The _Senator._ They were damn near 2 miles away and hit us with an accurate shot."

"2 _miles?_ Are you sure?" Sid struggled to sit up, promptly gave up the fight as a wave of nausea overcame him. He settled for resting on his elbows. "I don't know any cannons that have that range."

"I'm sure," he snapped. "But 's not the worst of it. The shots, they... _exploded._ Like, if you've ever seen a cannon catastrophically fail and backfire, how it explodes everywhere, shrapnel cutting into everything, people, ship, you name it, and everything in a radius of 20 feet or so is just fucked? It was like that. The cannonball would embed into the wood and then just fucking explode."

__"Holy shit," Crosby muttered. He understood now why Ovechkin had opted to run, instead of engage._ _

__"Yeah." Brandon stared at his hands, stained with red. "Tried to help Nick as much as I could, but...not a lot we could do for most people."_ _

"We need to figure out our next step. This is a threat to the _Penguin_ , as well. They've already attacked us."

__"We'll be at the Stanley in two days. Then we'll meet with other crews and discuss plans."_ _

"Let the _Penguin_ work with you."

__"Excuse me?" Brandon laughed, incredulously. "You're willing to have your ship work with pirates? And moreover, you expect us to just...let you waltz back over to your ship? You must be insane."_ _

"Then let Foligno captain the _Penguin._ I'll stay on the _Blue Jacket._ But yes," Sid collapsed back on the bed, suddenly feeling very tired. "I think if we all want to survive, we are going to have to work together."

__"Turns out, exploding cannonballs ain't the craziest shit that's happened tonight," Brandon muttered, and fell silent._ _

__Sid's last view of the world for the evening was Dubinsky dipping his hands in the water bucket, trying in vain to scrub off the blood._ _

~~~~~

By the time they docked on land, on this infamous pirate island, Sid was finally up and walking around, albeit slowly. If he walked too quickly, his stomach had a bad habit of emptying its contents onto his shoes. He was still topless; any pressure against his back, even cloth, was uncomfortable.

And of course, now that Sid felt good enough to walk around, he was confined to Backstrom's room, not allowed to step out and get his bearings, or see the true extent of the ship's damage. The _Capital_ had taken a shockingly large amount of casualties for two cannonballs, and everyone was on edge. It took Backstrom and Dubinsky away from the room for long stretches of time, and Sid was doing his best to not be bored to death; there wasn't even a porthole in the room to look out of. All he could do was wait to be transferred to the _Blue Jacket_ and think of ways to convince Foligno and the other pirates to make a temporary alliance.

Sid had just dozed off on Backstrom's bed when the door flew open. Both Dubinsky and Backstrom stood in the doorway; Brandon held both a blindfold and rope and looked completely at ease. But Backstrom had an odd, nervous expression on his face that rattled Sid, set him immediately on edge. "What's going on? What's this?"

"Just transferring you to the _Blue Jacket_ ," Brandon explained, tone casual. Without Backstrom's slight flinch at the lie, he might not know anything was wrong. Sid immediately flattened out to the wall.

"You're a shit liar," he accused, even though it was Nick that was giving up the ruse. "Tell me what's happening, Dubinsky."

"They sold you," Backstrom blurted, which earned him a savage glare from Brandon.

"They sold - " Sid faltered, gaze swiveling to Dubinsky. "But - Canada - you have to let me speak to Foligno, please - "

Brandon flicked his hand, as if physically waving away his concerns. "Captain Foligno was the final authorization of this plan. We agree with you, Crosby, Canada is likely to be a continuing threat. But you'll just complicate matters. And there's no way a single ship will help win this - ...war, if it comes to that. Heading back to Pittsburgh to ransom you is not in the plans, especially not with Canada in the waters."

Sid backed into the corner, flinching in pain as his back touched. "Where did you sell me to?" _Physical labor, or brothel?_ Sid wasn't sure which was worse.

"That doesn't matter. Look, we had no other choice, so just calm down - "

_"Calm down?"_ Sid blew breath between his teeth, already panting with the adrenaline surge. "You do have another choice. Kill me. Be a fucking man, and kill me." 

"We are giving you _mercy_ by not selling you to Ovechkin."

"I'm not talking about Ovechkin." That would have almost been worse; while it would end in Sid's death, he would have to go through the worst tortures before dying. "Bullet through my head. If you really want to talk about mercy, Dubinsky..." But Sid could see Brandon wouldn't be persuaded; why kill Sid for free when he could dispose of him elsewhere and get money for it? He turned his attention to Backstrom, who looked upset at the scene. He intended to make a plea to the _Capital_ crew member, but never got the chance as Brandon pounced, slamming him up against the wall to hold him still. The surge of pain from his healing wounds nearly blinded Sid, at least momentarily.

"Help me," Brandon hissed at Backstrom, but when the surgeon hesitated, Sid managed to push down the pain, wedge his shoulder under Dubinsky's chin and thrust upwards, staggering Brandon a few feet back. Sid threw a punch, but there was no power behind it; his back screamed and his stomach roiled. Brandon dodged easily and followed it with his own right hook, which caught Sid in the jaw and sent him to the floor. His gut rebelled at the hit and emptied its contents onto the wood slats, and before he could recover, a boot slammed into his temple, and everything went black.


	2. New Content Starts HERE!

_6 Months Later_

The brothel was busy tonight.

Boone Jenner picked through the throng of men, hanging around outside, and entered the front door. The lobby wasn't much better; it was more men that Boone had remembered seeing in a long time. Jenner remembered suddenly that the Russian alliance had made port, an entire armada of ships that made the pirates entirely too nervous. But the Russians didn't give a damn about them; in fact, the _Blue Jacket_ had entered into a small trade agreement with a few ships. As long as the pirates didn't attack the Russians, it seemed, peace would be maintained.

"Oh! Hello, dear," the older headmistresses said, kindly, once she spotted Boone, who returned her smile with one of his own. Jenner had seen a lot of men believe they could outsmart or bully around this small, older lady, but she took absolutely no shit. Boone always tried to be unfailingly polite, and she seemed to appreciate it.

"Hello, ma'am. Who do you have available tonight?"

"Unfortunately, dear," she called everybody dear, or at least everyone she liked, "we're pretty booked up tonight, especially with how long you like to stay with the girls."

Boone chewed on his lip for a moment. "I can take a short appointment tonight."

It wasn't ideal. Jenner would never, ever admit this to his crew, but he didn't come to whorehouses just for sex. Everyone else got in, got off, got out. But Boone had never had a wife, or even a real relationship; and, being a pirate, that was probably never in the cards for him. One of his few regrets in life. He knew they were only prostitutes, but he liked to sit down, have a glass of ale or rum with them, and talk a little bit about their lives. It made him feel normal, like he was back in the Navy, living in Columbus, looking for a potential partner. Sex happened, too, of course; but he really enjoyed the time spent just chatting and laughing with a woman. He always tried to tease out what _they_ actually liked in bed, and was gratified to know that most of the moans he heard weren't just for show. It felt good making another person feel good.

Needless to say, the ladies liked Boone.

"It'll be quite the wait, even for a short appointment," the headmistresses tutted. "I know you're not usually into this, but perhaps you'd like to try the other side of the house? We're pretty full there too, but we do have an opening or two. There's a fella that just got free, could use a friendly face." She lowered her voice, giving a conspiratorial wink. "He's usually pretty grumpy, but if anyone can get a smile out of him, dear, it'll be you."

Boone glanced around, eyes wide. He didn't necessarily have a _problem_ with men, being intimate with them. Had done it once or twice before. Hell, hadn't everyone? When you're at sea for three, four months...needs had to be taken care of. But going for men when there were women available was something new, and he didn't really want anyone else to know.

"You know we're discreet," she seemed to read his mind. "Besides, it's all Russians here tonight."

"...okay, then."

"Excellent," she nodded at one of the young boys that helped out with the brothel, cleaning and doing other menial work, who promptly disappeared. "I assume you'll want two drinks, as usual. One for you and one for your new beau. William will grab them and show you to your room."

He waited a few moments for the boy to return, watched him maneuver deftly through the crowd with two full mugs of ale before stopping in front of Boone and nodding. He walked a lot slower, more deliberate with Boone in tow, making sure the paying customer was able to keep up.

The loud din of the crowd noise and crushing heat of humans subsided as they climbed the steps. Now, it was replaced by tinkling laughter (most of it fake, Boone could tell, the ladies putting on a show for clients), loud moans - both male and female, and squeaking mattresses.

"If you would please, sir," the young boy had Boone hold the mugs of ale while he fished out a key from his trousers, unlocked one of the non-descript doors in the hallway, and pulled it open. He bowed low. "Please make sure to take your ale mugs with you when you leave, as he is not allowed to have anything that might be used as a weapon. And, for everyone's safety, keep his hands tied, although you may uncollar him for your session, so long as you re-collar him before leaving. Here is the key for it."

"Okay, thanks," mumbled Boone, confused and juggling the ale mugs for a moment to accept the key. Were all the men like this? The boy was acting like this was a wild animal. The door shut gently behind him as he crossed the threshold, and he frowned at the sight. The room, compared to the women's he visited, was relatively barren. A few chairs and a table - _nailed to the floor,_ Boone noted quickly, with a jar of oil placed on the table. There was a tiny viewing window, but it didn't even have any glass in it.

Even the bed was sparse, no sheets, just a thick pillow and comforter. The whore sat on the bed, staring at the floor with a scowl, hands tied together in front of him with rope. He had on a slave collar, which was attached to the bedpost by a thick chain, leaving him a small radius to actually move around. He was dressed only in loose pantaloons.

"Oh, Jesus," Boone muttered as his eyes flicked to the man's face.

It was _Sidney Crosby._

Crosby lifted his head and looked just as horrified to see Jenner. Boone remembered what Sid looked like, before Dubi had sold him to a brothel months ago (he had no idea it was _this_ brothel); now he was much leaner, albeit still surprisingly muscular. He had cigar burns pocking his upper chest and a recent black eye that was yellowing and faded.

"Should have figured I'd see one of you eventually," Sid scoffed. "Did you come to have a laugh at this, then?"

Jenner was aware that he was staring, and he glanced back at the door. _Just leave,_ he thought. _Just get the fuck out_. But something about the headmistress' words came back to him : "he could use a friendly face", and Boone didn't know why, but instead of turning to flee, he crossed the room and sat down on one of the chairs.

"No, no laugh. Here," he said, holding out one of the mugs, and Sid stared at it like it was a foreign object. "It's...it's just ale."

"Why?" Crosby didn't accept the drink, rearing back like it was poisoned.

"Well, I...I like to have a drink, and maybe talk a bit with the people, I, uh." _The people I fuck,_ he didn't finish, although he didn't think that would be happening tonight at all. "Look, you weren't...I didn't ask for you specifically, or anything. I didn't even know you were _here._ I'm always with the women, this is sort of a new thing for me, but it's crazy busy tonight, there's Russians everywhere, and I didn't want to wait that long..." Boone was aware he was babbling now, but couldn't stop. "And they said, there's this guy available, and that he - I mean, you - are usually pretty grumpy, and that looks like it's probably true because what are they doing to you? Jesus, man."

"You mean my scars? My face?" Sid reached up to rub his eye, the ugly bruise whitening out for a moment as he put pressure on it. "I'm not compliant. I don't submit. So I get kicked around. Although, sometimes it's just easier to let them fuck you." He finally accepted the mug, examining the liquid for a long beat before taking a sip. "And sometimes I try to goad one of them into killing me. But that hasn't worked yet."

Jenner's eyes widened at the matter-of-fact tone about such a subject matter from the other man. "Why? A lot of the ladies I talk to here...I mean, it's not the best job in the world, maybe, but it's a life. They can go into town and have fun when they're not working, and - "

"I'm shackled to the bed, and you think they let me out on the town?" Crosby took a hard look at Boone. "Look at me! Just look! I don't want to die, Jenner, but I don't want to live like _this."_ He shook his head angrily, staring down at his mug. "I fucked up. When I first got here, I didn't have these bonds all the time. The first pirate that walked through those doors, I broke my window and sliced his throat open with the glass shard. I was going to stab myself next, but I didn't kill him fast enough. He screamed, and they ran in and stopped me before I could. And now..."

Boone's eyes flicked to the window, all the glass carefully removed.

Sid's shoulders slumped, anger seeping out of him like water out of a leaky boat. "So, Jenner. What can I do for you this evening? Perhaps _you'd_ like to kill me?"

"No, uh - no, I don't. I just want to talk." He was trying to hold onto his anger towards Crosby, a man who had captained the ship which killed many of his colleagues. But he found it hard to do. It was obvious the man was miserable; Boone tried to imagine living life in this cage, chained to a bed, and his heart ached in sympathy. Still, Jenner wouldn't be able to bring himself to kill a man who wasn't threatening his life, one who wasn't fighting back. It just seemed...wrong.

Also, he'd probably never be allowed to return to this brothel, and that would suck.

"Okay," Sid replied, clearly trying to figure out the pirate's agenda and failing, just looking distrustful and confused. "Thanks for the drink, anyway."

"Sure." The two men drank in silence for a long moment. Boone tried to think of something to say. "Oh! I, uh...I saw your ship the other day."

Crosby's eyes lit up, the first sign of happiness he'd seen in the man. "You did? And?"

"Still as big of a pain in the ass, as ever," Boone smirked. "We've gotten a little faster, though. You keep chasing us, but haven't caught us yet."

"Soon," Sid declared. "They must think I'm dead, by now. They'll have elected a new captain. See, normally, in the Navy, it's not like that. It's very chain-of-command type situation, but the _Penguin_ , we always operated under...well, basically under pirate rules. Just out of necessity. A bit more democratic than most Navy ships. Kris Letang was my #2 and I'm willing to bet that's who they elected. Maybe Geno, but...probably Kris. It would all have to be approved by Pittsburgh, but there's no reason they wouldn't okay Kris. He's deserved his own ship for years, anyway." He finished off his drink, set the mug aside. "Sorry. I guess I'm rambling."

"It's fine," Boone told him. "It's understandable. Well, we have our hands full. Seems like half the Canada armada is trolling these waters, shooting at anything they see. Us, you, it don't matter. They've sunk a lot of pirate ships. If they aim for these Russians, it's going to be a blood bath."

"I fucking knew it," Sid muttered, darkly, but paused to digest Boone's information. "Surely, Canada wouldn't want to take on pirates, America, _and_ Russia." Sid frowned, and Boone could see him shift his brain into military tactics. "That's suicide."

"You'd think so. But Canada has these new cannons - they're accurate even in long range and the payload, it explodes like a cannon backfire. Deadly stuff. It seems they mean to control the seas."

"We saw that on the _Capital_. I tried to convince Dubinsky to take me to your captain, that I might...might have been able to help, but instead..." Sid trailed off, shaking his head, the collar encasing his neck clanking as he did so. Boone stared at it; he suddenly hated the sight, and he shifted forward, gently touching the metal.

"Can I take this off?"

Crosby averted his eyes, looking almost embarrassed. "Yes. Please." He lifted his chin to allow access to the lock, and Boone produced the key. As the collar fell to the floor with a heavy thunk, Boone saw there were two marks embedded into the skin, a symptom from having the metal around his neck so long and often. He pressed his fingertips gently to the marks; Sid didn't move away from the touch, even though he winced.

"Sorry," Boone withdrew his hand. "I didn't even think. They must be tender."

"Better than it used to be. My neck would get so sore I could barely turn my head. It's not optimal, but I guess it could be worse."

"Shit, I actually have something for that." Boone moved to sit on the bed, next to Crosby. He dug in his pocket and emerged with a small tube. "It's aloe. Grows down here. Natives say it's good for a whole bunch of stuff, but me, I've just tried it for burns." Jenner grinned, crooked, swiping his finger through the yellow gel. "I was a real idiot, put my hand on a freshly-fired cannon once. Blisters everywhere. This stuff really helped out. Here." Boone tipped Sid's head back with his thumb to no resistance, using two fingers to gently spread the aloe on Crosby's neck.

"Why are you doing this?" Sid muttered softly. Boone could feel his vocal cords hum through his neck as he touched it. "What's your game? Even if you didn't deliberately come here for me, specifically - ...you still paid for me. You don't have to be nice."

"I want to."

"You can just fuck me and leave, Jenner, it's no big deal."

"Is that what you want?"

Sid pursed his lips, a thin pink line. "No...no. But, I mean - I've killed your friends."

Boone just snorted at that. "Not everyone on the crew is a friend. Luckily, you usually managed to hit the biggest assholes on the boat. In a way, you did me a favor."

Sid laughed, then, and to Boone's ears it felt like a genuine laugh, the first he'd heard from the man. He grinned in response, his thumb pausing above Crosby's pulse, felt it beat strong, a little elevated. "And," he continued, thinking of the headmistress' words, and echoing them. "You look like you could use a friendly face."

Crosby tangled his fingers in the front of Boone's shirt, his expression shifting to something a little desperate. "It's been...a long time."

One hand still resting on Crosby's pulse, he slid his other through the former captain's hair, clipped short and uneven. Boone bent down, bumping his nose for just a moment against Sid's; Sid surged forward, pressing his mouth to Boone's in a soft kiss. Boone wasn't sure if Sid was doing this out of professional obligation or actual desire, and so he hadn't planned on pressing it further, but Crosby's grip tightened on his shirt front, pulling him closer, and Sid opened his mouth in an invitation. Boone accepted, deepening the kiss, pressing his tongue against Crosby's.

Both men were panting when the kiss finally broke, and Boone dipped his head to kiss the indent in Crosby's shoulder, carefully avoiding one of the cigar burns on his bare skin. "God, you're beautiful," he muttered, and he meant it, even though he surprised himself to voice the thought out loud. Sid's deep tan from being in the sun all day on the ship had faded to a pale white he hadn't seen on anyone but the ladies working the brothel; scars from old wounds and fresh burns marked his skin, but Boone found them fascinating instead of off-putting. Before, he'd been a little hefty, insulated from physical labor by virtue of being the captain, but now he was lean and cut. Jenner's hands fell to the only piece of clothing that Sid was wearing, the baggy pantaloons, but made no further movement.

"You don't have to ask," Sid murmured against his mouth.

There was a thin smile by Boone in response. "Yeah, I do."

Crosby swallowed, audibly. "Okay - yes."

Sid stood to allow easier access, and Jenner peeled the pants down, slowly, until they pooled on the floor and Crosby was naked. Boone was gratified to see him hard, that maybe it wasn't just all an act, but his hands were still bound together, ruining the view. "Can I untie you?"

"You're not supposed to. But it's up to you."

Boone quickly gave up on trying to untie the knot, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small dagger and sawing at the rope, watching it fray and twist until it snapped off and landed on the floor. Sid turned his palms skyward, stared at his hands like he was amazed to see them free.

"They don't keep you tied up all the time, do they?" Boone was dismayed at the red rings around Sid's wrists, angry rope burns that looked terribly painful.

"Only when I'm on shift. It is what it is." He climbed into Jenner's lap, then, with Boone tipping back, his back meeting the wall to support Sid's weight pressed against him. They kissed again, and Sid curled his fingers around the other man's ribcage. His fingers were almost shockingly cold; being tied up probably didn't help the circulation, Boone figured. "So, what do you want?" he asked against Boone's mouth.

"What do _you_ want?"

"I - " Sid faltered, looking confused at the question. "I don't know. Nobody asks me that. I haven't really thought about it."

Boone made a sad _mmm,_ skimming his fingers along the scars and smooth skin on the other man's chest. "Aw, hell, Crosby."

"Just...call me Sid."

"Sid," Jenner repeatedly slowly, like he was tasting the name in his mouth. "Only if you call me Boone. Sid, I'm going to lay you down now. Okay?" He wrapped his arms around Crosby, maneuvering them so they were on the bed, Sid below and Boone on top of him. "This is okay?"

Crosby smirked up at him, a wry sort of expression. "Boone, if you knew what these sessions typically looked like with other men, you wouldn't be asking if this was okay. This is fine. This is - _great,_ alright, so don't...it's okay, yes, it's more than okay."

"Jus' wanna be sure." Boone nipped his jawline, skipping over Sid's neck - still damp with aloe vera - to get to his chest and kiss downward. He paused to pay special attention to the scars, the jagged lines and twisted circles, leaving Crosby squirming.

"That - that one's from your captain, you know," he said, as Boone got close to a faded white line across his stomach, curved like a smile. "Back when we were both in the Navy, and Columbus and Pittsburgh were at war. We were dueling, and he got me. Nearly gutted me wide open. But I escaped. Instead, I just have the reminder on my skin."

"I bet you have a story about every one." God help him, he wanted to hear about them all. Later, he was going to need to untangle this situation, how he felt about Sid, if this was just him being a sucker for sad-sack cases or perhaps he was just guilty that it was his crew, his friend, that was responsible for putting Sid here - but that was for later. For now, he kissed the scar that Foligno had given Crosby, who sucked in his stomach at the touch. His kisses moved down to Sid's hip, and Boone wrapped long fingers around the base of his cock, stroking the underside gently with the pad of his thumb.

Sid bit back a whimper, and Jenner looked up, met his eyes. "Don't hold back," he said. "I want to hear you. If something's good, I wanna know." 

"It's good," Sid confirmed, voice breathy and low. His bent legs fell open, and he tilted his hips up towards the touch. In response, Boone shifted his mouth over from Sid's hips to his cock, pressing his tongue just above his own curled fingers and licking a wet stripe upward.

"Fuck," Sid muttered, twitching, and Jenner was wondered - if this man, who had sex daily, was this responsive during a blowjob...did anyone ever give this to him? Or did they just take? Boone suspected the latter, which strengthened his resolve to give the best blowjob of his life.

Not that he'd given that many. But he knew enough to pause, lap gently at the sensitive skin below the head (which caused a series of fresh whimpers from Crosby that sent bolts of arousal straight to his groin); was experienced enough to take Sid far enough down his throat that his cock scraped the back of his throat, causing his mouth to water and drip spit down to his balls. He slid his fist up and down everything that wasn't in his mouth.

He'd asked Sid to not hold back, and the former captain was obeying. He was loud enough with whines and little grunts and groaning out Boone's name that, had it been anyone else, Jenner might have thought they were faking it. But it was painfully obvious that Sid had not had anyone to pay attention to him like this in God knows how long. Boone had Crosby sucked deep, starting to bob further when he felt Sid's thighs start to shake, heard a growled curse from above and then Crosby was coming down his throat.

Boone pulled off, swallowing, with some regret that he hadn't seen Sid's face when he came. But his post-orgasm face was nearly as good. At some point, his cheeks and neck had flushed a deep, splotchy red, made even more obvious by his pale complexion. He was staring up at Boone through half-lidded eyes, and Boone realized how long Sid's lashes were, that any of the ladies he usually saw would kill for them. Crosby kept darting his tongue out, licking at his dry mouth, and Boone ached for that tongue, but decided tonight was not the night.

"I take it you don't usually get that," Boone asked, and Sid shook his head, lazily sated.

"The other way around, typically."

"Pirates have no manners," Boone noted, wryly. He paused, hesitating at his next request. "I was hoping maybe...can we just...can I hold you?" Fuck, just another reason for the boys to _never ever_ hear about this one. Boone was a cuddler with the ladies, and he found that he wanted the same from Sid, wanted skin-on-skin contact, the warmth of another person melting into him.

Sid reared back like he'd been slapped at the suggestion, looking shocked, but nodding mutely, slowly. "I'm just gonna take off my shirt and shoes," Boone said, stripping so he was barefoot and topless, then settled down next to Crosby. The bed was on the small side, not meant to have two full-grown men snuggling next to each other, but that just meant they had to tuck close. He wrapped his arms around the other man, and Crosby buried his head into Boone's chest with a small sigh.

Sid still seemed tense, not fully relaxing, so Boone tilted his head, murmured in his ear. "That's all, Sid. I'm not gonna fuck you next or jam my dick down your throat or anything. I don't even intend to take my pants off. Just relax, and let me do this."

Crosby did relax then, slowly going boneless. "I guess I don't understand," he said, voice muffled by Boone's shoulder.

"Hey, I'm the paying customer. I do what I want, and this is what I want." He gently circled a fingertip around a thick, circular protrusion of scar tissue on Crosby's shoulder.

"You have a mighty strange fetish, Boone."

Jenner chuckled, pressing a kiss to the short hair above Sid's ear. "Ain't the first time I've heard that."

The two men kept close for the remaining time, quietly conversing about current events and news from the outside, or just laying close quietly, or sometimes tilting their heads in for a few kisses. They were in the middle of one of those make-out sessions when Boone jerked up at the knock on the door ; that was their five-minute warning. "Shit."

"I usually pray for that knock," Sid muttered. "Not right now." With some difficulty, he pulled himself up sitting, picking up the collar that was still laying discarded on the ground, and started fastening it around his neck again.

"What are you - ...?"

"You'll get in trouble if I'm not collared and tied for the next customer." Sid offered him a crooked grin, straightening up with pride. "Those are the rules now, ever since I hid behind the door and surprised a guy walking in. They'd already removed the glass from the window, and all the furniture, but I still made do. Strangled him to death with my bare hands."

Boone chuckled. "I can see now why they were giving me enough warnings like there was a tiger in this room." He looked down at the cut rope, twisted at their feet. "What do I do about that?"

"Oh, hmm...you gotta get a new one, from downstairs." Jenner started towards the door before Sid cut in. "Take the mugs. I can't have those in my room, ever since..."

"Let me guess, you killed a guy with them."

Sid's smile told him yes, so he grabbed the empty tankards, took them downstairs, and asked for new rope. He was scolded by the headmistress about untying Sid, but he assured her that it was all under control, and after reminding him to be careful, he trudged back up the stairs with Crosby's new bonds.

His stomach twisted with disgust as he tied the rope around Sid's wrists. He tried to keep it loose, as comfortable as possible, but his heart still sank when he looked at Crosby, returned to his former state of being collared to the bed, hands bound in front of him. He shook his head in dismay, fingertips sliding through Sid's.

"Hey - thanks, Boone. For everything." There was still a small note of confusion in Sid's smile, but gratitude more than anything. "I work pretty much every night, so if you ever, uh...I mean, if you're ever bored, want to come see me again..."

"Yeah, sometime." Jenner was already mentally counting out the days to his next shore leave, when they'd be back on this particular island. Not for another two weeks, but : "Soon as I can, yeah?" God help him, what was he getting himself into it?

Sid's grin was dazzling, erasing all doubt in Boone's mind, but it was interrupted by the door swinging open, the next customer, a wild-looking man wearing entirely too many rings. "Come, your time finished," he snarled, with a thick, Russian accent. "You go."

"Sorry," Boone muttered, glancing back at Sid to see the mask settle on his face, a defiant, dangerous sneer directed towards the Russian. Jenner slammed the door. He didn't want to see any more.


	3. Chapter 3

To Boone's chagrin, it was a month and a half before he got shore leave on that island again. Canada was a force in the local waters now, and although there were still plenty of merchant vessels to pick off, the biggest and fattest ones had started sailing out of their way to avoid the Caribbean. And thus the _Blue Jacket_ had to follow, like a dolphin following the schools of fish. Pirates had to eat, too.

The brothel was significantly quieter than the month before, with no Russians this time. Otherwise, it was still the same old place he was used to; still the petite, cheerful Madame, the scurrying servant boys, the perfumed aroma that smelled slightly off. He gave up his cutlass and flintlock, as per policy, and stepped up to the woman in charge.

"Hello, dear," the headmistress welcomed him. "Good night to pay a visit. Almost everyone's free except...let's see, Margaret, Rose, and Ada."

"Uh, actually. I wanted to see, um...that guy from last time. Sid."

Her eyebrows shot up for a moment, but she quickly smoothed her face out into a smile. "Oh, don't be embarrassed now, dear," she patted his hand. "We like what we like, no? And this is the place for it, certainly. But, actually, he's on discount tonight."

Boone frowned. Generally the only time anyone was 'on discount' was when they were less mobile, somehow - a broken leg or arm, for instance. "What happened?"

The Madame looked thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps you and I should take a walk. I have a proposition for you?"

"Uh - yeah, okay."

She whistled at one of the older boys. "Samuel, mind the front, dear, won't you?" Swooping towards the front door and outside, she motioned for Boone to follow. She was silent until they got to the brothel's backyard, which, to Jenner's surprise, was filled with banana trees and other food crops. "Easier to eat when you grow your own," she said to his look of surprise.

He nodded, keeping his eyes down on the moonlit dirt path between plants. "So what's this all about?"

The headmistress sighed. "I don't know what to do with that boy of yours." Boone felt an odd twist to his stomach at the possessive usage. _Your boy._ "You've taken a fancy to him, haven't you? And I think he to you. You see, he's usually quite ill-behaved. He was sold to us as a slave and has done a poor job of adjusting. Not that most slaves are happy, but he's worse than any. But he was almost...well, I won't quite use the word _content,_ but compliant at least, for a week or two after your visit." Her smile was visible in the dark, teeth glinting white in the moonlight. "I need more of that. You seem to be the only one that can get him there; he mentioned your name, specifically, a time or two. So perhaps we can make a deal."

"What about - you mentioned he's on discount tonight? What happened?"

"Unfortunately, after those few weeks of relative calmness, he went right back to being touchy, and then last week he snapped again. I told the man, don't untie his hands, but you know pirates, dear. They think they know better than ol' Cora."

Cora. It was the first time Boone had ever heard her name. He was almost embarrassed that he'd never asked before; it was poor manners.

"Now," she continued. "We at this brothel don't flog our talent. It creates unsightly scars, and besides, then they can't lay on their backs for who knows how long. That's a real problem when you're a whore, you know, dear. So we have to get a little more creative on punishment. We have one we call the table, and that's what he's on now. You tie his hands and feet to each table leg. So he can't move, but he can still work. But we have to discount him during his punishment, because he can't fulfill every desire of yours. He couldn't ride you, for instance."

"Oh." Boone felt his stomach drop at the mental visual of Sid being strapped to a table and fucked by strangers. "I'll bet he's hated that."

Cora sighed loudly. "You have no idea. There are nights he's screamed so much we have to gag him. That's a lose-lose scenario, because either you have other customers disturbed by his screaming, or you can't use his mouth. And who wants a boy that you can't use his mouth? Right now he's _losing_ us money. So, here's my deal: see what you can do to calm him down and have him be a little more compliant. A little less disturbing the other customers, a lot less killing and maiming them. If it takes your continued visits to do that, I'll make sure you get in free with him. One entire night a month."

"A whole night?" Boone asked, skeptically.

"The entire night, my dear. I know how you like your long sessions. And then if you want any additional time, I'll make sure to give you a very heavy discount."

Boone made a _hmm_ sound. She must be desperate to throw away an entire evening's wages once a month. "I'll certainly try." But he was cognizant that really, he'd only spent a few hours with Sid thus far. Could he really convince the man to behave full time?

"Please do." She paused in front of the banana trees, her face drawing into a grimace. "This may be his last chance with us. If he doesn't get better - _much_ better - I'll need to look into other options. I've heard that there may be a captain or two that wants a ship whore in these waters. I was given the name of a few. One French-sounding fellow? Giroux, I think?"

Boone's eyes widened. "You haven't messaged him yet, have you?"

Cora tilted her head, picking up on his concern. "Not yet, dear. Like I said, last resort."

Boone allowed himself to release the breath he was holding. He was familiar with Giroux, and would be shocked if Crosby hadn't faced the _Flyer_ in the past. Sid might be that ship's whore for awhile, but his ultimate fate would likely be torture and death at the hands of Claude. "He's an asshole."

The Madame had the sense to look contrite. "Well, money is money."

"How much?"

Boone didn't know why he was even asking. He couldn't afford a slave, not in a million years. Cora's stated price confirmed it. Even the price to get rid of a bad slave was too much.

She turned and began leading him back towards the front door, and Boone suddenly remembered the package slung around his hip. "Oh! Madame - uh, Cora. I brought him a gift. It's a few of these." He pulled out one of the books he'd stolen from the last merchant ship. More than anything, Sid's barren existence filled with zero entertainment or leisure had bothered Boone, enough that when he got the chance to grapple onto the last merchant who'd surrendered, he'd stuffed his pockets with a few books. The _Blue Jacket_ never looted books, so they were free for the taking, if anyone cared to snag a few. "Can I give them to him?"

"Well," she replied, "He can't have them in his room when clients are around due to his bad habits of bludgeoning them with anything not tied down - which you're going to convince him not to do, yes? But, we'll make sure they're supplied to him when he's not working."

"And what would it take for him to get those privileges back? I mean, to have...stuff. In his room."

She gave him a sidelong glance, holding open the front door for him. "Well he can start by not trying to kill half the men that walk through his door. It would take a lot of very good behavior."

"And what about getting rid of the neck chain? Or his hand bonds? Or letting him have some freedom?" He stepped back through the doorway, and Cora subtly nodded at one of the servant boys, which sent him scurrying.

"He's already is a very good help in the garden that you saw, where we have him plant and weed under strict supervision on his off days. I may be able to allow him to spend some leisure time outside. I don't believe I can ever allow him town visits - those are only for those who voluntarily choose to be here. Not slaves; they'd run immediately. As for his chains...again, a lot of good behavior. _A lot."_

The servant boy suddenly came back with Boone's customary two mugs of ale, and she smiled, pointing upstairs. "Tonight's your free night. Make the most of it. Remember, I need to see him a little more submissive."

Boone didn't particularly like that word, and resolved not to use it in Sid's presence. "How many nights does he have left on the...table?"

She thought for a moment. "Two."

"I want him off. No more after tonight."

Cora raised an eyebrow. "Get him to behave, and I'll agree to it. Good luck, dear."

"This way, sir," the boy with his ale nodded, leading him up the familiar steps and unlocking the door for Crosby's room.

The aforementioned table was a small but sturdy rectangle, obviously specially-brought in to his room for just this purpose. Sid was stretched naked on the smooth wood, facing away from the door, ass presented towards the person entering. His bottom half hung off the table with his feet on the floor, and he was lashed to the table by his ankles and around his thighs, spread wide open for easy access. There was another rope going around his midsection, keeping his chest and body pressed to the table, and his arms were secured to the other two table legs, giving the table the visual effect of a torture rack. The table was small enough that Sid's face hung partly off the other end, so a man could reach his mouth as well. Sid didn't even try to glance back at who was entering the room, just slumped his shoulders at the sound of the door opening. Of all the things in the terrible scene in front of him, that gripped Boone's heart the most, that Sid looked so resigned to this fate. The spirit Boone had seen last time was missing, tonight.

Jenner carefully set the mugs and the books on the floor as the servant boy swung the door closed, and yanked out his dagger. Only when he'd sliced through Crosby's first ankle bond did Sid jerk his head around, surprised to find one foot suddenly free. His eyes lit up at the sight, and he seemed incapable of speech for a long moment before finally finding his voice. _"...Boone?"_

"I'm here. Hold still."

"You're here. I can't believe - " Sid was nearly trembling in excitement while Boone freed his other ankle, then his thighs. He immediately flexed his ankles and stretched his legs from the painful, constant position they were in.

"Just another minute," Boone said, hurrying to the front to cut his hands free. The job took entirely too long for his liking, but he wanted to be careful with the dagger close to Crosby's wrists. At last, the final rope snapped and fell in a clump to the floor. Sid hopped onto and twisted his body on the table so he was sitting at the end, legs dangling off, making a grab for Boone; the pirate obliged, sliding between Crosby's thighs and wrapping him up in a kiss, his hands pressed on the table, outside of Sid's legs.

"I didn't figure you'd be back," Sid murmured against his mouth when the kiss broke.

"Fuck, I'm sorry - I - it's Canada - we're sailing further - for merchant ships." Boone could barely get out a sentence, each pause punctuated by a quick kiss, like he was starving for this man he'd only met once before.

Sid finally pulled back a little, mouth even redder than normal from the kissing. "Canada? Attacking merchants, now?"

"They're spooking everyone and shooting at seemingly everything that isn't her. Here, get down from that damn thing." Boone wrapped his arms around Sid's waist, helping him to hop down off the table. He wondered where he should start first: his gift, or the new terms and conditions he was presented tonight. The books, he figured. "Go sit down. I have a surprise for you."

Sid blinked in shock. "A surprise? You have...something for me? Like a _gift?"_ He sounded blown away, and Boone's stomach hopped excitedly, to see Sid's reaction.

"Yes," Boone laughed, delighted. "But you have to sit. And close your eyes!"

Sid backpedaled to the bed, sitting down with a thunk. "Close my eyes, really?"

"Uh huh."

Boone watched a sliver of mistrust and worry shoot through Sid's expression at the command, and for a moment he thought Sid would refuse; but after a moment of worrying his lip - _God, that fucking mouth_ \- he did as asked, dutifully shutting his eyes.

Boone moved to the door, where he'd dropped his knapsack, and dragged out the four books he'd brought. A few more steps took him right in front of Sid, who flinched at the presence in front of him, while he was in a vulnerable position. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to wrap Crosby in a protective hug or punch every other man who'd mistreated him, but he settled for gently placing the books into Sid's open hands. "Okay...open up!"

The extra rum ration he'd given Wennberg to ensure that Boone would be in a position to collect these books was all worth it, to watch Sid light up in delight. "I figure, maybe, you're pretty bored in here," Boone explained. "We usually don't bother with books when we're raiding a ship, but I made some extra room."

"This is amazing. Incredible, I can't believe you did this for me." Boone matched Sid's silly grin as flipped open each fabric-bound books to read the title page inside. Sid stopped suddenly at the fourth book, tilting his head in confusion for a moment. He smirked up at Boone. "You're not trying to tell me something, are you?"

"Uh - what?"

"This book." Jenner just stared blankly, and Sid showed him the title page. "It's a book on dress-making. Wait - " Crosby narrowed his eyes at Boone's wide-eyed look. "You _can_ read, can't you?"

"Well, um...no."

"No?!" Sid lovingly set aside the books onto the small end table, pulling Boone down onto the bed next to him. "Well, that's going to change. I'm going to teach you. I just need a little time to flip through those books and find some good beginner words, maybe write out the alphabet. Oh, I mean - " Crosby blushed suddenly. "If you want to. It's your money, after all."

"I - yes, I want to." _Anything you want,_ he didn't say. "But, the money? Actually, it's not. I mean, it's not my money. I'm here the whole night tonight, for free."

"The whole night!" Sid's face was a mixture of relief, joy, disbelief, which morphed into a narrow-eyed query. "For free? How'd you manage that?" He started to look suspicious again, like he was waiting for the hammer to drop, like this was all too good to be true.

Boone sighed, taking Sid's hands in his own. Cold, again, like last time. This part, he wasn't looking forward to. "They made me a deal. I get one night free per month with you. But the catch is, you have to behave."

_"Behave."_ Sid's entire demeanor changed now, and although he didn't yank his hands from Boone's, he looked annoyed. "Be a good little whore, is that it? And why the fuck - "

"Because if you don't, they're going to sell you to Claude Giroux."

Sid looked dumbstruck, and then frightened, the color draining out of his face. "What? Giroux?"

"I take it you know that name."

"Unfortunately."

Boone pulled Crosby's hands to his mouth, kissing them and puffing warm air on them. "The headmistress, she doesn't know your history with Giroux. She just knows the _Flyer_ is looking for a ship whore. And you're losing her money right now, Sid, so she's tempted to sell you off. But thing is, I know Claude. If your relationship with him is anything like your relationship with the _Blue Jacket,_ he will take great pleasure in making you suffer terribly before he kills you. I don't even want to think about what he'd do."

Sid snorted. "You and your crew are my best pals compared to what the _Flyer_ and Giroux think of me. And the feeling is mutual. I don't think you're sick enough to imagine what he'd do."

"So then you have to behave, Sid. Please." Boone met Sid's eyes, jaw set squarely, mouth in a grim line. "I know it sucks. I mean - I don't pretend to _know,_ but...just, you don't have to like it. You don't have to be happy, or cheerful, or... _submissive_. Just don't disturb or kill or hurt any of the paying customers. That's it, that's all they want." He flicked his eyes to the table. "As a show of good faith they've agreed not to put you back on that fucking thing. And with good behavior, you can start having stuff in your room, like these books. Entertainment, you know? And then maybe they'll stop making you wear that stupid fucking collar, or they'll leave your hands untied." Boone dropped Sid's hands in favor of wrapping his arms around Crosby's waist; Sid obligingly climbed onto Jenner's lap, resting his chin on the pirates' shoulder. "Plus," Boone murmured in Sid's ear. "I'll get to see you a lot more. I don't know what I'd do if I found out they sold you to the _Flyer._ Jesus, I can't even imagine." Even if Boone wasn't finding himself in a sudden, mild obsession with this man, he'd feel bad for _anybody_ that was going to get sold to Giroux.

"You don't know how hard it is. To be - compliant, to follow orders, your free will stripped away and - going from where I was, _what_ I was...I was a fucking _captain,_ Boone, and now this?"

"I'm sorry."

Sid pulled back to look at Boone, and his eyes were rimmed with red. "Why are you doing this, again? I don't understand. We don't even know each other, not really."

"I - " A thousand explanations ran through Jenner's head. _I like talking with you. You're smart and funny and hot as hell. I'm sorry one of my best friends put you here; I sort of feel responsible for this shit. Nobody deserves this treatment. I'm a sucker for sad cases. I love taking care of people, and God knows you need it._ "I dunno. Want to."

"That's not an answer."

Boone offered a crooked smile. "Best I can give ya."

Sid made a grump sound, but his face soon softened. "So. All night, you said?"

"Yeah. I got those two mugs of ale like last time. They're still by the door, I can grab - "

"We can drink those after I blow you." Boone stuttered at the matter-of-fact statement, and Sid laughed at his surprise. "We're in a _brothel,_ and this is your second time with me, and I still haven't even seen you naked? C'mon. Gotta earn my keep."

"God, no, Sid, you're not obligated - "

"Boone," Sid's voice had dropped an octave, taken on a husky note. "This is not an obligation. You've done so much for me already." His hand was sliding under Boone's shirt, playing with his waistband. "Let me make _you_ feel good, now. ...Please?" Boone was already undone by the plaintive question at the end, but then Sid flicked his tongue out to wet his lips, and God, he wasn't sure if he wanted anything so bad ever. He nodded, trying not to look over-eager.

Sid grinned in response, and pressed a soft, sweet kiss on Boone's mouth. His hands worked to untuck Jenner's shirt while they kissed. "Can I see you naked?" Sid huffed, quietly.

"Fuck yes." Boone quickly yanked his shirt over his head, and Crosby climbed off his lap after another quick kiss. He pulled off the blue-and-red scarf from his hips that signified his crew membership, reflexively felt for his flintlock - no, it was stored safely downstairs. Next came his boots, then he shimmied down his trousers, and they joined the pile of clothes on the floor. He felt himself almost blushing under Sid's appreciative gaze. When Crosby sank to his knees and gently wrapped a hand around his cock, staring at Boone like he was at church, Jenner suddenly found himself forgetting what it felt like to have saliva in his mouth.

Unlike Boone's dry mouth, Sid's was so wet, and burning hot around his cock, a contrast to his always-chilled hands resting high on Boone's thighs. "Jesus," Boone muttered, swaying upright for a moment before thunking heavily back on his elbows onto the bed as Sid continued to work him. Half of him wanted to simply lay down, close his eyes, and tilt his hips up, lose himself in the sensation; the other half wanted to keep his eyes open, watch his cock disappear inside Sid's mouth. With some difficulty, the latter won out.

"Fuck, you're hot," Boone encouraged, fingers gliding through Sid's hair. Sid dragged his gaze up to Boone's, and smirked; the corner of his eyes crinkled, and Boone could feel Sid's mouth stretching around him. He involuntarily bucked his hips up, felt himself hit the back of the other man's throat, but Sid didn't choke, made a groan that sounded encouraging, so he did it again.

And again, and again, and then he couldn't stop, even though he told himself he'd be patient, would let Sid set the pace. But Sid wasn't seeming to mind, scraping his nails gently up Boone's inner thighs to his balls, and then Boone's world went dark as he squeezed his eyes shut and came hard, one hand fisted in Sid's hair.

Boone let himself take one long moment to just lay on the bed, relaxed, shuddering out the rest of his orgasm before regret took hold. "Goddamnit," he muttered, struggling back to a sitting position. Sid dropped his cock out of his mouth with a wet _pop_ and sat back on his haunches, his smile dropping off at the concerned look on Boone's face.

"What - what's wrong? Did I - "

"It wasn't you," Boone cut in quickly. "Me. I promised myself I wasn't going to be pushy, that I was going to let you set the pace. I didn't want to be like everyone else you see." _And then you went and just face-fucked him until you came, you fuckin' dummy,_ Boone thought sourly.

Sid just laughed, incredulous. "Did you like it?"

"I - yeah. Yes, I liked it. Very much."

"Then I liked it, too." Sid pulled himself off his knees with a wince, climbing back into Jenner's lap. Boone drew in a sharp breath as their naked bodies fit together for the first time. Sid's chest was warm, stuck against his, and he was hyper-aware of the other man pressed between his legs. "I'll tell you what, Boone. Don't worry about what happens when you're not here. I don't even want to think about it. When you're here, it's just me, and you, and if I don't like something, I promise I'll tell you. Deal?"

"Deal," Boone breathed out, and he was drawn to a jagged scar down Sid's collarbone, couldn't resist attaching his mouth to it for a moment.

"Oh, that one." Sid tilted his head up to allow better access, squirming closer, if that was possible. "I was - maybe, ten? Working as a powder boy. One of the swabbers didn't do his job properly. The cannon exploded while we were in battle. Luckily, I was in the powder room, fetching more bags. But the explosion shattered parts of the door, and a few pieces of shrapnel embedded itself in that area. They got it out, but the scars have been there ever since."

Boone kissed upwards from the scar, up Sid's neck, nipping his jawline, and finding his mouth for another long kiss. "You want that drink, now?"

"Yes. And then maybe I get to hear a little bit about _you,_ eh?"

Jenner just laughed. "Maybe. I guess we do have all night."

"Tell me everything, Boone."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not a CBJ fan, this chapter refers to a "Cam" and a "Jonesy" but doesn't explicitly spell out their identities. It's referring to Cam Atkinson and Seth Jones.

Boone Jenner whistled under his breath as he rinsed off in the water bucket in his cabin. It had been a long few days, with one cannon problem after the other. The most recent merchant ship had fought back hard, and unlike most, they'd had multiple small cannons on deck, which they'd used to take out the _Blue Jacket'_ s rear sail. It had been a perfect shot, and Captain Foligno had been grumpy the last few days as they limped into port. He blamed himself for not noticing the artillery options and properly adjusting. Even so, the pirate crew had eventually overrun the merchant ship and made a nice haul.

But the ship needed repairs. The sail needed mending and rebuilt, there was a small problem with the rear hull, not to mention the cannons. One of them had been dented all to hell from a well-aimed shot, requiring major repair. And another cannon just refused to fire, even though there were no obvious cracks or anything else wrong with it. Turned out, it was a long, thin crack on the inside of the cannon; the powder was nestling into the crack and not firing the ball properly. They'd had to pull long hours to get the pair back in working order before they shoved off again.

Every time the _Blue Jacket_ got damaged enough for major work, Foligno had a rotating crew for the repair, so the same men didn't get stuck fixing the ship every single time while their buddies went off to drink on shore leave. Unfortunately, this time was Boone's turn on the grind, alongside Matt Calvert. And he hadn't been allowed to leave the ship until the cannons were fully back in shipshape. Every hour had brought fresh despair; since that evening he'd made a deal with Madame Cora, he had only been able to see Sid four more times. Two last month, two the month previous, immediately proceeding that first free night she'd given him. He was afraid the cannons would take so long to fix he wouldn't get shore leave at all. But now they were finally finished, and based on the still-sorry state of the sails, Boone figured he had at least two days of shore leave. Maybe three.

Boone didn't know what he'd have done if he hadn't gotten any leave; he was so excited this month to show Sid his progress in letters. Sid had sent along a few sheets of paper, with simple words and drawings next to them, so Boone could study in his free time and still remember what the words were. They were terrible drawings, some of the worst Boone had ever seen, but they got the point across, that the squat misshapen kitty was spelled C-A-T and the stubby thing with sails was S-H-I-P.

The first word Sid had written, next to a woman in finery (well, a stick figure wearing a triangle), was D-R-E-S-S. He hadn't lost his sense of humor, at least. Boone had studied those pictures and words with a fury whenever he had an ounce of free time, and thanked his lucky stars that he had a quasi-private room, shared only with Brandon Dubinsky. That was fairly unusual, he knew, but Boone and Brandon were Foligno's #2s, and they were afforded some special privileges. So Boone only had to hide the sheets from Brandon, not a whole swath of men. He didn't want the crew knowing about any of this. Too many messy questions.

Boone had picked up five new books from the last ship, and there was an excited pit in his stomach for Sid to see them, and show off that he could actually read a few of the words in the titles. No more dress-making instructional novels if Boone could help it. On one of the books he could understand two whole words; _The_ and the next word, _Three._ Boone was still mixing his numbers up, mostly, although he knew the numerical values: 1, 2, 3, but not the words. But he remembered three because it looked so much like 'the'. The final word was huge, starting with an _M_ , so Boone didn't even try to guess it out.

Now he just had to clean up, and get out to Sid. Finally.

He dunked his head under the water, scrubbing at his hair, trying to get as much of the black powder out as he could. Staying under as long as possible, he pulled back up, gasping for air, and suddenly there was a figure right in front of his face. Boone yelped in surprise and toppled backwards, making a wet _splat_ on the floor.

Brandon Dubinsky laughed uproariously. "Got you _good_ , man," he gasped out. "Holy fuck. Shoulda seen your face."

"You're so fuckin' funny, Dubi." Boone flicked water into Brandon's face which elicited fresh laughter from the other man, then crawled back over to the bucket and dunked in up to his elbows.

"I heard you're finally finished! Fucking finally, man! And just in time. Me an' some of the boys are heading to the Stanley here in a few. Rumors going around that Tyler Seguin - you know, the #2 on the _Star?_ And Patrick Nemeth are gonna brawl it out."

"Didn't Nemeth just transfer off the _Star?_ He's on, like, the _Avalanche_ now or something?"

"Uh huh. And Seguin's never been in a bar brawl _ever._ He's so protective of that pretty little face. So somethin' totally happened when they were crew mates. It's gonna be awesome." Brandon's eyes suddenly lit up. "Holy shit, what if it turns into a ship brawl and the whole _Star_ and _Avalanche_ crew go after each other? I bet Jamie Benn can whoop some ass."

Jenner snorted. "I know you. You just want an excuse to stand in the middle of the bar and have someone bump into you, so you can start swinging too."

Brandon grinned, shrugging. "I mean, if it happens, it happens. You gotta have my back. I mean, I love Cam and all, but well, _you know,_ and Jonesy, he's a big boy but he's totally shit at throwing a punch."

"Well...I can't, tonight."

Dubinsky snorted. "What do you mean, you can't? You didn't drink at all with us last month. Actually...you were missing the month before that, too. What gives?"

"I, uh..." Boone stood up, grabbing at a rag and slowly drying off his arms, trying to think of something. "I've just been really fuckin' horny lately. And this island has the best brothels."

"You know I don't care if you..." Brandon made a jerk-off motion with his hand. "Just, like, keep it on your side of the room."

"It's not the same."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But shit, man, that's a lot of sex, even for you. You can't just use your hand for one night, and come drink with us?" Dubinsky's eyes wandered to Jenner's bed and frowned. Boone followed his gaze, stomach dropping at the sight. One of the books peeked out of the cloth sack he'd been using to transport them and hide them. "Is that a...book?"

No use lying, what else could it be? "Yes, and not yours," Boone cut Brandon off before he could grab it, stuffing it back inside the sack and pulling it closed.

"Why the fuck you got books, Bam Bam? You can't even read."

"I, uh...have a friend, in town, who likes them. I'm not stealing from the ship, Dubi, I thought you didn't care about books - "

"Whoa!" Brandon put up his hands. "I never accused you of stealing from the ship. You're right, we don't keep track of books for loot purposes. They don't sell for shit." He lifted an eyebrow, starting to smirk. "Is this... _friend_ located at that brothel you're going to?"

"No."

"Uh huh."

" _No_ , Dubi."

"I'm just surprised that whores can read, that's all." Boone growled in annoyance at the dig, grabbing the sack and slinging it across his back. "What's her name? Is she hot? Well, shit, of course she's hot. Oh, is she a redhead? You've always had this weird thing for gingers - "

"Shut the fuck up, Dubi." Boone turned to go, grinding his teeth in irritation. He didn't like being reminded that Sid was forced to work in the brothel, that word _whore_. It brought unwanted visions of other men with their hands on Sid, treating him like he was garbage, just a hole to be used, and it made him see red. 

"C'mon, man. You know prostitutes don't love, right?" Boone was halfway out the door, but he turned back to stare at Dubinsky. Brandon took a step back at the fury in Jenner's eyes, but continued on. "I mean, if you're bringing gifts for this lady, you're obviously into her, and...look, I just don't wanna see you hurt, man. She's a _whore_. She gets fucked by men, including you, for money. You don't think she tells every other man how much she loves him, too, while they're shaking the sheets? That's how she makes a living, and - hey, man, hold up." Boone was stalking towards Brandon with his fists clenched. "Stop, Boone, _stop."_

Boone did stop, but only when he was nose-to-nose with Brandon, teeth bared. "That's not cool, man. You don't even know - her."

Dubinsky narrowed his eyes at the proximity of the other man. "Boone, I'm just trying to protect you. You're one of my best friends, and I don't want to see you hurt. I mean, maybe it is different with this girl, who knows. But I've seen a lot of our boys fall head over heels in love with a whore and all they get left with is an empty coin purse and a broken heart. You remember Andrew Cassels? You remember we had to goddamn hang him because he was stealing from the ship? And you know _why?_ So he could pay some fucking whore, Boone, that he thought he was in love with. Where did that get him?"

"Well, she's a slave, so she doesn't even get a cut of what I pay. So she's not doing it for the money, alright?"

Brandon reared back in surprise, staring at Boone for a tick before nodding, waving him away. "Okay, man, fine. You do you. Go see your girl."

He watched Boone turn and stalk away, out the door, but frowned in confusion. _Slave?_ Brandon had never been with a whore who had been sold as a slave. All the slave prostitutes he knew were either men, or - ah. Now he understood. Either men or native Caribbean women, or sometimes women from Africa. _He's embarrassed because his lady isn't white!_ Brandon figured. Well, he'd just have to show Boone that he thought it was no big deal. Some of the pirates he knew were pretty racist, but he'd never felt that way, and besides, they had Jonesy, didn't they? He'd just have to do a better job of showing it was her _profession_ that had him concerned, not her skin color.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One quick note about "safe sex" in this fic : Sid gets around, A LOT. There are actually more explicit pairings than what the current tags suggest (being currently withheld for spoiler reasons) and many more implications about what happens "off screen". STDs were a problem even back then. The first rubber condom came about in 1855, which is before this story is set ( _roughly_ in the late 1840s) but even then they had to be specially-fitted and were custom-made. There was also still a lot of skepticism about how effective condoms were. So, would men use condoms (either natural or linen) in a whorehouse, with another man? It's certainly possible, but there will be zero condom usage in this fic. It's a big enough pain in the ass (pun intended, I suppose) that Vaseline won't be produced for another 30 years so we get to use some interesting lube choices, much less dealing with condoms or STDs.

As much as Boone hated when he entered Sid's room, to see him still bound and collared - he hadn't earned the rights to get them taken off, yet - he loved to be the one to strip the bonds from him. The way Crosby lit up, staring at Boone like he was a _hero..._

Well, nobody really had ever looked at Boone like he was a hero. Certainly not now that he was a pirate. He knew he was the villain to most men he encountered, so it was gratifying to see the other side of the coin, from time to time.

After the chains had been stripped off and they'd gotten out their greetings, frantic kisses and hellos and laughter, and after Boone had applied more aloe to Sid's rope burn - something he still insisted on doing, when the angry rings looked particularly bad - he showed Sid his new books, let him flip through them and marvel. Boone pointed out the book that he'd almost been able to read fully.

"Musketeers," Sid read the last word out loud, snuggled against Boone. _"The Three Musketeers._ I definitely wouldn't expect you to have known that one. It's a tough word. But I'm excited to read it."

"I hope you like it."

"I know I will." Sid frowned suddenly, trailing his fingers down Boone's stomach. "What's wrong? You're all tense tonight. Look, we don't need to do our reading lesson today, if you don't want to. I know you get frustrated, but trust me, you're doing _amazing._ I can't believe how well you're doing, actually. But if you need a break - "

"It's definitely not that." Boone sighed, playing with a frayed thread on Sid's pantaloons. "Just something that happened before I came here."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"You don't want to hear about it."

"Now, that's not true." Crosby scooped up the books and the sheet of paper with rhyming words, their reading lesson for today, setting it next to the discarded neck chain on the floor. "What happened?"

"It's my, uh, roommate," Boone started, being deliberately vague. He definitely was not going to bring up the name _Dubinsky_ to Sid, if he could help it. "He got all up in my face before I left. Mocking me for coming here so much. Saying that, uh, prostitutes don't love or care for you at all, that sort of shit. He thought it was silly I was bringing you gifts, thought I was spending too much time with you."

Sid frowned. "You're always welcome to go drinking with your crew, if you want - "

"I _don't_ want." Boone slumped comfortably against the other man, bumping his forehead fondly against Sid's jaw. "This is where I want to be."

Crosby grinned, a goofy, relieved smile. "Well, I want you here, too. And..." He grabbed Boone's hand, interlocking their fingers together. "It's definitely not true that prostitutes don't fall in love. You know, they've been giving me a few privileges lately? I've been getting to eat outside my room. With everyone else. I never got that before, it was always just stuck in here, or sometimes working out in the garden. Anyway, there's plenty of the women here, they're truly in love with one of their...clients. A few of the guys, too. Slave, free, it doesn't matter. Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps them going." Sid swallowed thickly, rubbing his thumb in a circle on Boone's palm. "Sometimes...only thing that keeps _me_ going."

"What do you mean?"

Crosby chuckled, a low, nervous laugh. "I'm not trying to say I _love_ you, Boone. But trying to imagine going back to my life before you walked through that door is horrific. Every time someone walks in, I get excited that it might be you. I fall asleep and I think about you holding me. And every time it gets to be too much, some asshole gets rough or smacks me around or - well, I close my eyes, and I think about _you,_ and the thought of seeing you again gets me through."

"So why can't you say you love me?" Boone pulled Sid close, wrapped his arms tightly around him, offering a crooked grin at Sid's wide-eyed stare.

"I mean, it's only been a few months, and just a few days every month, so I can't really use that word yet, right?"

"Oh, are _those_ the rules? I mean, I thought being in love meant all that stuff you just said, that you get excited to see the other person, and you think about them all the time, and daydream about being in their arms."

Sid was blushing, now, stammering a little. "Well, I mean - don't feel pressured to - "

"Sidney." Sid shut up at the interruption, blinking in surprise at the full use of his name. Boone leaned forward to bump his nose against Sid's, staring into the other man's eyes. "It's okay. I've never been in love, so maybe I am wrong, but I don't give a shit how long it's been, I am fucking crazy for you. I think about you too, all the time. You're smart, holy shit you're smart, you can teach a goon like me to read, right? And you're funny, I laugh all night, Sid, and just having you here next to me makes my day complete, like nothing can go wrong if you're here by my side. So yeah, Sid, I think I do love you. And I don't know how, but one day I'm going to take you away from this place, and your body will be your own again."

Sid laughed, a giddy sound, shaking his head. "No, Boone. I'll be _yours._ I love you, too."

Boone slid forward just a few inches to meet Sid's mouth, and they kissed until both their lips were bruised, until they were both panting and grinding against each other. "Boone," Sid mumbled between kisses, pressing a flat palm to Jenner's stomach, tantalizingly close to his crotch.

"Mmm?"

"Let's have sex."

Boone stopped mid-kiss at that proclamation, lifting his head in surprise. They'd done just about everything but sex, up to that point; lots of blowjobs, handjobs, heavy petting. Boone had never felt dissatisfied at the lack of actual penetration, and didn't want to push it, although he was aware of the irony of letting the whore make the first move when it came to sex. "Yeah? You're not too...like, sore? I mean, we don't _have_ to - "

Sid snorted, looking half annoyed, half amused. " _That's_ why you haven't asked yet? I told you, anything that happens when you're not here has nothing to do with us. Just ignore it."

"Why else would I not ask for sex?"

Sid shrugged. "Some guys don't like sex. I mean, with a man. It's not like a woman with natural lubrication, you gotta do some work if you want me. Some men don't want to bother, but still want a blowjob or whatever."

"I'll put in the work," Boone growled.

"I figure you will, but maybe you could...go slow? A little gentle, at least at first?"

"Anything. Anything you want. I'm going to make you feel _so good,_ Sid."

A million scenarios raced through Boone's mind, everything he'd wanted since that first evening with Crosby : Sid riding him, his head tossed back in ecstasy, or Sid pressed up against the wall. Boone would nip his back and he'd whimper, beg for more...

He cut that thought off at the legs. He was already thinking of next time, and next time, but he hadn't even started on this time. How did he want their first time to go?

On top, he decided, after a brief moment, he wanted to watch Sid's face flush that pinkish-red he gets when he's hard, watch him cry out and bite his lip as he's coming.

"Lay down," Boone urged, and pressed Sid to the bed, gently, fingers slipping inside his loose trousers and pulling. They peeled down with no resistance, puddling at Sid's ankles, who kicked them off in short order. His cock laid already hard against his stomach, and Crosby snaked his hand down, stroked himself slowly. Boone hissed at the sight. "You know I love watching you play with yourself."

"I know," Sid murmured. "Don't make me wait too long, though. Want you."

Boone's own clothes took longer to get out of, belt and pants and boots and shirt and everything of course seemed to get tangled today, fighting him as he pulled on the fabric. By the time he turned back around, naked, Sid's legs were splayed open, one ankle dangling off the bed, and his eyes were closed, and goddamnit he was doing that lip-chewing that Boone found so fucking hot while he jerked himself off. "Jesus Christ," Boone muttered, and he dropped between Sid's open thighs, nudging them further apart.

Sid drew in a sharp breath when Boone veered away from his cock, where he'd expected, to trail his mouth down past his balls and between his cheeks. "Boone - "

"Relax," Boone whispered. He spread Sid's ass open, slowly, felt tendrils of anger curling at the abused pink shade around his pucker. He wanted to kill every single man that fucked Sid without the goddamn decency of getting him properly ready. Boone started as gently and slowly as he could, just using the tip of his tongue to barely, barely flick wetly against his entrance, trying to avoid the friction-burned skin. He lifted his chin after a moment. "If it hurts..."

Sid was relaxing now from his tensed position at the first tongue-touch, starting to pant a little bit. "No, it's...it's good. You feel good, Boone."

Boone clicked his tongue for more spit, pressed a little harder, wetter, and was rewarded by a low moan. He'd heard a lot of Sid's moans, so far, but this was a new one, breathy and low, and all he wanted to do was hear it again. Boone reflected how ridiculous it was that he was getting this worked up, and he wasn't even the one being touched yet; his cock pressed hard into the soft sheets, twitching every time Sid groaned or whined.

Finally, Sid was boneless on the bed, all tension from the first touches gone, and Boone didn't know how much longer he could wait, anyway. He hobbled over to the table, grabbing the jar of oil and setting it next to the bed for easy access. It was coconut oil, and was in a semi-solid state that Boone needed to heat up in his hand.

"Just need a minute," Boone told him, impatiently watching the coconut melt into liquid in his palm, and Sid finally opened his eyes, blinked dumbly, like he was just registering Boone's words.

_That's okay,_ Boone expected him to say, but instead Sid just gave him a content little smile, said, "I love you," and fuck, he was making it hard to be patient. Especially this part; Boone didn't want any pain.

"God, I love _you_." He wiped his palm between Sid's thighs, smearing the first pass of oil, then retrieved more and repeated the melting process. Dipping his fingers into the pool of liquid to get them slippery, Boone pressed one finger in, slowly, agonizingly slowly, watching Sid's face for any sign of pain. "Okay?"

"Yes," Sid breathed out with a whoosh, just realizing he'd been holding one in. "More. Please."

Boone snorted a hard breath through his nose, having to take a moment to steady himself before adding in the second finger. To distract himself, he bent down, sucking gently at the head of Sid's cock, tonguing the sensitive underside as he started to pump his fingers.

If distraction was what he wanted, it was a poor plan. Listening to Sid whine and plead his name and offering little keening whimpers was doing Boone no favors.

"Jesus Christ, Boone, if you make me wait any longer..." Sid squirmed, panting.

Boone didn't need to be warned twice, crawling up and gently spreading Sid's thighs. He stroked himself a few times, wiping the rest of the oil thoroughly on the shaft, and positioned himself between Sid's legs. As much as he wanted to watch himself push inside Sid, watch every inch disappear inside him, he instead leaned down for a sloppy, needy kiss while he tilted his hips forward. There was a gentle resistance and then both men groaned into the kiss as Sid opened up.

"Fuck," Sid moaned in his mouth, wrapping his legs around Boone's waist and pulling him deeper, until he was all the way seated inside.

"You feel so good," Boone muttered back, tugging at Sid's lower lip with his teeth, gently. "God, you feel amazing."

"I'm all yours, Boone - please."

Boone almost laughed at that, disbelievingly, that this gorgeous man under him was begging for him, crying out his name. Sid shifted to tuck his face against Boone's neck, and Jenner gave a first, shallow thrust, felt Sid's stuttered breath at the movement. "More," Sid whispered against his skin, and he obliged, Sid clinging to him while they rocked together.

Boone shifted, lifting Sid's hips up just a little, and his next thrust brought a loud cry from Sid. He didn't know what he was hitting, but Sid seemed to like it. "Right there, fucking right there," Sid demanded, so Boone kept going, calf nearly cramping while he kept Sid's hips lifted to hit that sweet spot he seemed to love so much again and again. He was pretty sure he was obsessed with the sounds Sid was making, that his fucking calf could fall off and he'd still find a way to stay in the position they were in, just to hear that noise.

"You going to come for me, Sid?" He slowed his thrusts down a little, not wanting to pop before Crosby. "Come on. I want to see it, want to watch you bite you lip when you go over the edge, feel you squeeze around me, you're so fucking hot when you come."

"Close," Sid whined, and he slid a hand between them, stroking himself desperately. "Close, please - "

"I wanna watch," Boone whispered, snapping his hips a few times, and then Sid was coming, bright drops of white dotting both their stomachs, alternating between a silent, open mouth scream and worrying his lip until it blazed a garish red.

"So good," he praised, immediately picking up the tempo, getting close himself. Boone knew he probably shouldn't come inside Sid, those were the brothel rules, but he wanted to. It felt possessive, like it was going to make Crosby _his,_ somehow, no matter who fucked him. Sid squeezed his bicep, murmuring encouraging words. "You can," he said, like he was a mind-reader. "Come inside me. Please? I want it."

"Fuck, Sid," he cried, one last hard thrust and he was doing just that, whimpering in Sid's mouth as the other man pulled him down for a long kiss as he came.

As the kiss broke, both men blinked at each other slowly, then as if on cue they grinned and giggled at each other's expression. "God you're fucking beautiful," Boone muttered, peppering kisses on Sid's jawline. "Wow."

"Wow indeed," Sid echoed fondly. "I don't know what I was nervous for. That was - _you're_ \- amazing."

Boone sighed, still resting gently on top of Sid, not wanting to pull out quite yet. It felt intimate, being here inside him, tangled together while they cooled down, and he felt immensely content. "It didn't hurt? I really wanted to make sure it didn't hurt. Wanted to make you feel good."

"It didn't hurt." Sid kissed him again, sweetly, holding him close and playing with a damp strand of hair by his ear. "It usually does. But not with you. You did so good, trust me."

Boone felt the anger rise again at Sid's circumstances, pushed it away with a kiss, possessive and sloppy. "I'm never going to hurt you, Sid."

Sid chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "I believe that, Boone, I really do."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any spelling / grammatical errors in the italics (Boone's writing) are meant to be there; anything outside of that is my own mistake. :)

For Boone, the best part about learning to read and write was not books, as much as Sid loved them. No, it was the letters. As his proficiency advanced, he and Sid could pen notes to each other while they were away, and exchange them when they met next. Sid liked to say that he could only tell the passage of time by re-reading Boone's letters to him, which he did, again and again, with entertainment still being scarce in the brothel, even with Boone's book gifts.

_I luve you I miss you the sees have ben chopie and ruff but I thinc of you_

Boone was reading basic words and writing simple letters after just a few more months, but for a long while, he was a terrible speller. It was tough to figure out that, for instance, the letter "o" could be pronounced so differently in words like 'one' versus 'no', so sounding things out didn't even help sometimes. Boone wondered who the hell designed this language, and figured he'd just have to study harder. Now it was a point of pride, not letting the English language beat him.

_i get new books today bcus the murchant ship have them so i hoped you like it._

It was embarrassing, at first, to have trade letters and see Sid's perfect penmanship and easy sentence structure, dumbed down for a simpler reading level, and Boone delivering what he knew was not the most elegant script in the world. But Sid gushed over them, even as he insisted on going through his letters next time they met, pointing out mistakes in spelling and grammar. Reading books in his down time on the ship helped, even if he still couldn't understand most large words. Just seeing the sentence structure, the correct tenses, were helpful to him. Sid had assured him that he was doing great; he wasn't going to master the language in six months, after all.

_I cant beleive what happen today. My roomate is still on this kick about you. He think your a black girl I think. He keeps talked about how hot he think that last whore he had was she is black. I think hes trying to hint he wants too meet you. Hahahahahaa nope._

Boone used to rip every letter open right away, as soon as he had a private moment when Dubinsky was out of the room, devouring the words again and again. Now he was more patient, only allowing himself to open one letter every few days. The waiting and anticipation made them even better, made him more determined to advance in his literacy, to give Sid the best mail he could muster. Boone's penmanship had eventually turned into something that even the harshest headmaster would have been - well, if not quite proud, at least accepting of, the script flowing and graceful, even if it took almost a year to get there. He'd shown Sid, once, the scrap paper of his practice, filled with _S_ and _I_ and _D_ s everywhere; his name was the first thing that Boone had wanted beautiful and perfect.

_Your mouth tastes like the sea saltsweet and wet and I coud drown in your kisses and die with a smile on my face Sid._

Boone had become a study in poetry only so he could write pages and pages of letters about love and romance and sex. Those were preferable to writing about Boone's life on the ship, talking about pirates and a crew full of friends that loathed Sid, and vice versa. At the brothel there were days that it was the only thing keeping Sid going forward, he said, to read those love letters until the paper was thin and nearly translucent. Sometimes Boone lifted bits and pieces of the poems he read right out of the books he didn't hand over to Sid, kept in his room for personal reading. If Sid knew, he never said anything.

_Do you remeber, last time I was there, and the lantern's blew out with a great salty gust, from the sea through your window? We was in the darkness, but neither of us stirred to relight the way. No, I loved it, to touch you in the shadows. I know every one of your scars, even without seeing them, Im sure of where they are. You hate them, I know, but I love that I can find that carved spot on your hip, can find the burn mark pulsing just below your nipple, as if by in stinct. Then I pulled you to me, taken you until we were spent, quiet on the sheets after just having been so loud, and I kissed your scars, until you squirmed and protested. Don't hate your scars Sid. They tell your story, and your story makes me happy. Everything about you makes me happy..._

Compared to his letters, Boone was not overly eloquent in person, never really voiced aloud any of the prose he wrote. In person, he knew that he was crass and boisterous and could be easily mistaken for an uneducated pauper. Rather than balladry, he preferred to offer Sid a simple, genuine smile and a soft _I love you_ , or even a laughing _God I **fucking** love you _after sharing some joke or after they were sealed together, naked and exhausted. But now, passing a year and a half since Boone had first met Sid, he seemed to have found some secret poet's soul on paper dedicated to the man.

_I cant stop thinking about the noises you make while I'm inside you. Hearing you cry out my name, trying to pull your legs imposibly farther up your chest so I can fuck you deeper...Jesus, Sid. Next time I'm off this ship, I'm going to do such things to you that you'll lose your voice for a week screaming my name._

Well, it hadn't all been poetry. Boone had quickly found a knack for being so filthy in describing what he wanted to do to Sid next time he arrived on the island that it could make a whore blush. To Boone's chagrin, it did, but only because _whore_ still described Sid. He had been given freedoms, no more chains or rope or punishment, but he was still a slave, and they could still only see each other a few times a month. It was an unsatisfying existence that Boone didn't know how to change. He treasured the time they had together, but it just wasn't enough.

 _Not enough, never enough time._ Now, it was the first day of Boone's shore leave, and that thought flashed through his head as he listened to Sid point out his spelling and grammar mistakes from the latest batch of letters.

"See, this one you spelled wrong," Sid said. " _Devoted_ only has one 'e'. I know you say it like _deevoted,_ but that's actually a wrong pronunciation. 'Dev', not 'deev'."

"Yeah, well," Boone unfurled one of Sid's letters, pointing. "Your drawing of a parrot is completely ana - anatomcally wrong." Crosby had started to draw and doodle on his letters to Boone. There was only so much going on in his world for him to talk about. Much like Boone's improvement in writing, Sid had gotten better at drawing; a low bar indeed, from where he started. He certainly would never be the next great artist, though.

"Anatomically," Sid murmured a correction. "And naw, how so?"

"His legs are attached way too high up."

Sid scowled, inspecting the drawing. "Well, next time that guy with a parrot comes in again, I'll tell you who's right."

Boone chuckled. "Sid, trust me, I'm right. I see a parrot every day because Dub...uh..." He cut himself off hard at the name _Dubinsky,_ but it was too late; Sid's reared back, eyes wide, then narrowed in fury.

" _Dubinsky_ has a parrot."

"Well. Yes."

Sid pinched the bridge of his nose. "Talk about anyone else on your crew, Boone, but not him. Just...don't. Please."

"I'm sorry. Really." Sometimes, the situation was hard to reconcile. He wanted to tell his best friend about the love of his life, and vice versa. But that wasn't to be. There were days that he felt furious at Brandon, for selling Sid here, and other days that he felt grateful that Dubi hadn't simply killed him, and finally more days that he understood where Brandon was coming from. Sid had killed friends and crew members and people he knew, and if Boone hadn't had such a soft side to give Sid a chance, wouldn't he still hate him, too? Brandon didn't have any kind of soft side that Boone knew of. "Sid - "

He cut off at a huge _BOOM_ , and both men shot off the bed and over to the window to try and ascertain what was happening. The window was tiny, but large enough to make out ships in the harbor, firing cannons.

"Fuck," Boone breathed. He couldn't see the ship flags, but he had a good idea of who they were.

"Canada," Crosby said, having the exact same idea as Boone. Jenner ran over to the bed, starting to tug his boots back on.

"Sid - I gotta - I should really - "

Sid nodded, turning back towards the window. He didn't look happy, but he understood duty when it called. "I understand. Really. Just come back soon, if you can."

Boone grabbed his shirt, figuring he'd pull it on while he was running to the dock. He detoured to the window for a quick kiss, then was out the door at full speed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Colored' was a polite term, back in those days, but not anymore.

The streets had been chaos. Every pirate crew in town was on their way back to their ship, like a roaring wave of people. As the ships got back up to full staffing, they'd repelled the invaders - it _had_ been Canada - and even sunk two of their ships. But every pirate vessel in port had taken heavy damage. Boone sat on deck with the rest of the crew, trying in vain to get a cut above his eye to stop bleeding while he listened to the damage reports.

_Sails torn and mast taken down...anchor snapped...patches needed to hull on decks 2 and 4..._

"Direct hit to one cannon. Destroyed. Two dead," Boone reported as Foligno nodded to him. He wasn't best buds with the two men killed, but their deaths still enraged him. He had a responsibility to the gunner crew and he had failed. Boone pulled away the rag, turning it in his hands to find a spot that wasn't soaked with blood, and pressed it back to his face.

Nick looked somber as they got to the end of their damage report. They were in rough shape, but the _Blue Jacket_ had done better than some others. He could still feel the heat from the _Wild,_ which had caught fire further down the dock, was in smoldering embers on the beach now. Occasionally, a scream came from that direction before dying down.

"Jenner, Dubinsky, my cabin," Foligno ordered, turning on his heels, and Boone shared a wide-eyed look with Brandon. It was rare that Nick didn't use their nicknames, or at least their first names; this was serious. They followed along slowly.

"Enter," came the command when they knocked. Nick had his eyes closed, chin tipped to the ceiling in thought. The pair slunk in cautiously, over to the chairs that were across the table from their captain.

"Captain," Brandon greeted him, formally, as they took a seat.

"Boys." Nick finally cracked his eyes open, shoulders slumping. "That was ugly. We can't sustain damage like this again. It's already going to be weeks to repair, and we got lucky this time. I don't want to stick around long enough to be unlucky, now that we know Canada is bold enough to come into _our_ port and attack us. It's not safe here anymore. And that means we need to find new opportunities elsewhere."

Boone felt his stomach drop, like someone had kicked him in the gut. "Elsewhere? Do you mean, like...leaving the Caribbean?"

"Yes."

"Where would we go?"

"Well, we can't go back to America. Canada's fighting their war in those waters, too, not to mention the small issue of us being war criminals by fucking Columbus." Nick leaned forward, steepling his fingers together. "So we'll need to do some research, ask around, but we have some options. Russia? China? India? Africa? We've never been to those places before, but every place has merchant vessels. Every country has shipping lanes and opportunity to plunder. We just need to figure out what makes the most sense for us. And prepare for a long trip." Boone must have looked horrified, because Nick nodded at him. "I know, I don't like it either. Going to a new place is always risky. But it's the only way I see us surviving. ...is something wrong? Boone? _Boone."_

Boone was vaguely aware that he had stood up, was heading for the door, as if his body has taken on a mind of its own. He didn't know where he was going - _away from here,_ was all he could think about. He was never going to see Sid again, and he was going to have a fucking meltdown, and he didn't want to do it in front of the Captain and Dubi. He managed to stumble down into the gun deck, throwing himself half out the window that the exploded cannon used to sit in, and empty the contents of his stomach into the water. A few stray drops of blood from the cut above his eye, still oozing, followed his dinner into the sea as he dry heaved.

Brandon watched him go with alarm, turning back to Foligno with wide eyes. "Captain, I...let me just apologize, on his behalf. He's obviously not feeling well. Please, I beg, be lenient."

Nick was still staring at the door with irritation clearly written on his features. "Is he sick?"

"He wouldn't have bolted unless he was sick. So definitely sick, and probably pretty upset, too."

"Upset? About leaving for new ports?"

Brandon cringed. Nothing to do but be honest, now. "Boone, um, has a...girlfriend. On this island. She's a prostitute - "

"A _whore?"_

"I know, Captain, I'm right there with ya," Dubinsky replied with a nervous laugh. "But he's been seeing her for damn near two years now, I think. I mean, a long damn time. Seems to be head over heels for her."

"What's she like?"

"I - " Brandon clenched his jaw, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "I don't know. I don't know anything about her. I don't even know her name! Boone keeps her a secret. He spends every waking second on the island with her, but can't even tell me her damn name." He dropped his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think she's, you know, a colored girl, and he's embarrassed about it. Even though I hooked up with an African girl right after I found out and told him all the details, I was hoping that would convince him I don't care what color she is, but still...nothin'. No more details at all."

"Hmm." Nick's gaze turned steely. "Does he love this girl enough to...desert?"

"Oh no, no no, no, Boone would never," Brandon tripped over his words in his rush to get them out.

"Because you know I love Boone, but we can't afford to give any leniency to deserters. Just between you and me, it would break my heart if we had to hang him."

"Sir, he would _never."_

"So you think." Nick fell silent, tapping a finger against his closed lips. "There may be an option, though, as a favor to Boone and this apparent love of his life. I've always been a little skeptical of ship whores when we can simply sail into any port here in the Caribbean and have multiple brothels waiting for us. Just one more mouth to feed on board, in my opinion. But the _Flyer_ got one recently, and Captain Giroux says she's improved ship morale quite a bit. Plus, wherever we end up going will be a big unknown. Who knows how many brothels this new country will have? And the journey is bound to be long. No brothels on the open ocean."

"So you're suggesting we take Boone's girl with us?"

"I'm suggesting it's an option." Nick lifted an eyebrow. "Do you think he's the jealous type?"

Brandon thought for a moment. "I think," he said, slowly, "Boone would consider it a fair trade off to have her by his side when she's not working. I mean, she's already having sex with other men, right?"

"Yes, but now it would be men that he _knows._ Crew mates. You, me."

"As long as we treat her okay, and he doesn't have to...y'know... _watch,_ I think he'll be fine. Besides, what's his other choice? Leave her here, never see her again? Anything is better than that, right?"

"Maybe." Nick leaned forward. "I want you to vet this mystery girl out, then. See what she's like, if she's pretty, if she's enthusiastic. If she's good in bed. Ask Boone which brothel - "

"No," Brandon blurted, holding up his hands at Nick's surprised look at being interrupted. "I mean...let me figure it out without asking Boone. There's only so many brothels on this island, right? I'll find her. I just don't want to alert Boone that we're even thinking about this unless it's going to work out." Brandon paused, chewing on his cheek. "There's just something weird about this whole situation, Captain. Boone is my best friend; we've swapped a million stories about whores before. He's told me countless times about fucking this girl or how big that chick's tits were but nothing about this one? A man in love talks a lot about his lady, normally, don't you think? So yeah, it's weird, and I'm still not even convinced this girl loves him back. I ain't never seen any of our boys fall in love with a whore that hasn't ended up heart-broke. Whores don't love their clients, s'far as I can see."

"You think he's getting taken for a ride."

"Well, that's the strangest part, Boone said she's a _slave_ , so she wouldn't even be profiting from their visits. It's just off, that's all. I don't want to go behind Boone's back or nothin', but I think it's important that I go ask her whether she even _wants_ to go before we tell Bam Bam. I'm bettin' you that answer is gonna be no. And if she doesn't wanna go, or there's something weird, like she's 70 years old or something, then hell, I don't even mention the option to bring her."

"Make sure the brothel is willing to part with her, too," Nick nodded. "I'd hate to dangle the potential in front of Boone and then the whorehouse refuses to sell her."

"That would kill him," Brandon agreed. He put on a thin smile as he stood. "So, bein' that this visit is ship business, can I get the coffers to pay for it?"

"Fine," Nick grunted, begrudgingly. "Just don't spend all night. And send Boone to me. I'll make sure he stays here the rest of the evening and doesn't interfere with your visit."


	8. Chapter 8

Brandon was starting to think that Boone had made the whole thing up. Four brothels on this island, and three didn't have a goddamn clue what Dubi was talking about. Of course it _would_ be the last one that was the correct one. This brothel was Brandon's least favorite, which was one of the big reasons he'd sold that Navy captain here. What had that been, year and a half ago? Two?

Brandon briefly wondered if he'd see him. _Nah. Probably dead. Fuck, I would be, by now, I'd make sure of it._ He hadn't been back since the transaction. Brandon might be an asshole, but he figured there was no reason to visit and rub Crosby's fate in his face.

He stepped through the front door, and the Madame recognized him right away. The place was damn near deserted due to the attack, just hours earlier. "Hello, dear!" she chirped. "What are you looking for today: buying, or selling?"

"Buying, if you've got the right person." He stepped up to her. "I'm wanting to see if one of my crew members comes here on a regular basis and has a favorite girl he sees. And if so, I'd like to buy some time with her."

"What's his name?"

"Boone Jenner."

"Mmm, doesn't ring a bell."

Brandon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, stuck out a gold coin in her direction, and she made an elaborate a-ha face as she pocketed it. "Oh, _Boone!_ Yes, yes, now I remember. What a handsome, sweet young man. Yes, he comes here often, but..." her face retained a smile, but had a hint of confusion. "Well, he hasn't seen any of our ladies in well over a year. But there's one young man he's quite taken with. Did you still want some time with him? He's available now."

Brandon nearly choked in shock. "Oh, uhhh - yeah, okay." _Holy shit._ So that's why Boone had been so cagey about the info. It wasn't a colored girl at all, it was a _man._

The idea of Boone being with a man wasn't really the shocking part. Brandon didn't know any pirate who didn't occasionally wet his whistle in those kinds of pleasures. Long months at sea sometimes left you no other choice, and your hand got real boring after awhile. Hell, Brandon himself a side agreement with Cam, and sometimes they'd sneak down into one of the lower decks and blow each other. Even so, every pirate he knew _preferred_ women, if given the choice. So for Boone to spurn available female companionship, and moreover, fall in _love_ with a man, well. That was a huge surprise.

"John will show you to your room," the headmistress told him, taking his weapons and pointing up the stairs. Brandon's thoughts raced as he followed the servant boy. What would this guy look like? How the hell did this even start? Was Boone gay all along and Brandon had just never noticed, had just assumed he preferred women? But no, Boone had told him about plenty of women he'd slept with...maybe he was lying? Maybe he liked both? Brandon knew he was an asshole, but to not even figure out one of his best friends liked men...and Boone obviously felt like he couldn't tell him or be open about his preferences. _Well, shit. I really am a fucking jerk, aren't I._

He was ushered into a plain room. As the door swung open, he immediately noticed the stack of books in the corner as Boone's gifts. There was a forgotten and abandoned chain on the floor next to the bed ( _slave,_ Brandon remembered) and curiously, the table and two of the three chairs were nailed to the floor. And then there he was, Boone's whore, laying on his stomach on the bed, sprawled out with no shirt or boots and facing away from the door. Too skinny, Brandon noted first, but then his eyes fell to the familiar-looking flogging scars on his back and a sense of dread thudded in his brain. The door shut behind him and the man's head jerked up and around; he'd been dozing.

The man woke up in a hurry, like a mouse who had just noticed a cat ready to pounce. Brandon stared wide-eyed, and received a similar stare in return. "Holy fucking shit. It's...it's _you?!"_ He barked a disbelieving laugh. Crosby was fucking alive. Not just alive, but apparently in love with his best friend. His brain wasn't making sense of any of this, yet.

"Oh my God," Sid muttered, looking horrified to see Dubinsky. "What the fuck do you want? Oh, Jesus, the attack - Boone - ?"

"Yeah," Brandon had already slipped into an antagonistic mode upon seeing his old enemy. "Figured you should know. He died tonight."

"No. _No!"_

Brandon shrugged. "Sorry," he said, and turned to go, opening the door.

Sid howled, an ear-splitting, haunted wail that could be heard even when Brandon stepped into the hallway and shut the door. He'd heard animals die with more dignity than the noise that man was making right now. He was about to take a step to leave, foot hovering in the air, but amidst the grief-stricken sobbing of Crosby, Boone's face flashed in his brain. He'd been scrubbing the decks as Brandon left the ship; his eyes had been hollow and lost, the corner of his mouth ticking up in an apparent attempt not to cry. The only other time he'd ever seen Boone that upset was when Foligno told them that Columbus had declared them war criminals, and he realized he'd never see his mother again.

_Goddamnit, they ARE in love._

"Fuck," Brandon spit, turning and entering the room again. "Shut up," he told Sid, over his crying. "Shut up! He's not dead, shut the fuck up!"

Sid fell silent as asked, wiping at his eyes. "Not dead? Is he hurt, then?"

"He's fine."

"But you said - "

"Look, I'm an asshole, alright? He's fucking fine. A cut above his eye and that's it."

Sid coughed, voice thick with fresh tears when he spoke next. "So why the hell are you here, then?"

Instead of answering, Brandon sagged back against the door, shaking his head. "Jesus fucking Christ, Crosby, I didn't want to believe it. I knew Boone _thought_ he was in love with some whore, but I've never seen that love story turn out on a happy ending. All the boys get betrayed in the end."

"'Whores don't love'," Sid said, slowly. "You're his roommate. The one that said that to him."

"Yeah, that's me. But you do love him, don't you? A respite away from your shitty life, I guess?"

"Yes, I do love him." Sid was starting to get some life back in him, the defeated look giving way to anger as he slid out of bed, started pacing the room like a caged animal. "Boone is the only fucking thing that makes my life worth living. So I don't know what your play is, Dubinsky, or why you're here, but if it's something to do with him, if your goal is to take him away from me, then only one of us is going to leave this room alive, and quite frankly I don't give a fuck if it's me or you."

Dubinsky laughed. "Oh, is this how you sweet-talk all the men that come to fuck you? How is life nowadays for you, anyway, _Captain?"_

Sid turned to one of the chairs in the room, gripping the back of it hard. Brandon could see his white knuckles, his nostrils flaring as he breathed hard, trying to keep control. "What," Sid gritted out, "Do. You. Want."

"Well, I paid to fuck someone..."

"No. Are you fucking crazy? No!"

"You can't say no," Brandon taunted. "You're a whore. You're a _slave._ Anyway, if you say no, then you'll never see Boone again."

That was, perhaps, not the correct thing to say. Sid's eyes flashed with fury, and he cocked his head, staring at Dubinsky like he was thinking about charging him.

Boone's face came again into his thoughts, unbidden, and he snarled a curse. "Wait, Crosby, just...fuckin' hold on." Brandon scrubbed his hand across his face. He'd fallen right back into the taunting with Crosby, a man that he hated, but he tried to remember - this was also the love of his best friend's life. Perhaps he could extend some basic courtesy. They'd been somewhat friendly, back on that island, right? "Look, that attack you saw earlier...well, it's got the Captain nervous. We're leaving this area, and probably we ain't coming back."

"Oh, fuck." Sid murmured, taking a step towards one of the chairs and sinking into it, like he was afraid he was going to collapse, otherwise. He looked up, suddenly calm and resigned. "I know they usually take your weapons, but I'll bet you still have your dagger, don't you? You could slit my throat. Boone would never be able to do it, and I can't live like this without him. Please."

"I'm not going to - ... _ugh_ ," Brandon snorted, wrestling with the decision to even mention the offer. Was there any way Nick was going to bring him on board? Any way the crew would welcome him, and not just kill him right off?

Could Brandon even stomach Crosby on his ship?

"Goddamnit, Boone," he muttered under his breath, but then, louder: "Look, I'm not guaranteeing a goddamn thing, but maybe, _maybe_ you might be able to come."

"How?"

"Captain Foligno wants us to buy a ship whore for the voyage. So you see where I'm sayin' _maybe,_ here. Nick would have to agree to it, the crew would have to say yes and agree to not just kill your ass the second you step on board. And, of course, I was sent here to..." He cleared his throat. "Vet you out."

Sid didn't need the euphemism explained to him, just nodded. "Try me. I'll do anything your crew wants. Anything...you want." His voice strained at this last bit, and he lifted his gaze to the ceiling as if God was going to give him strength, but he looked resolute.

Brandon scoffed. "You're really telling me that you're not going to sulk and pout and whine at your circumstances if we bring you on board? You're saying that you're willing to submit to _me,_ not just here but throughout our voyage? I put you here. My ship put you here, and you want to sexually serve us?"

Sid stood up, fast enough that the chair wobbled behind him, nearly tipping but settling back on all four legs with a _thunk._ He advanced on Brandon far faster than Dubi was comfortable with, but the look on Crosby's face wasn't anger. "Tell me what you want," he said, as he got close. "Because if it means I'll be with Boone, then yes, I'll do it. I'll...submit." He obviously didn't like the word, but his look of distaste was gone in a flash, replaced by pleading. "I'll do what you want, be who you want. Try me, Dubinsky; at worst, you get a fuck out of it, don't you? What do you like, hm? Do you want me to ride you?" He stopped then, close enough that Brandon could see goosebumps prickled on his arms. "Or maybe you want to pull my hair while you fuck me from behind. I'll even scream your name if you want. Or maybe you'd like me down here." He sank to his knees, chin tilted up to watch Brandon.

Dubinsky blinked down at Sid, dumbstruck. "Are you really doing this? Why?"

"Perhaps you don't understand my circumstances here, Dubinsky. I am already _sexually serving_ , as you put it, the worst pirates on this Earth. Boone is everything to me. I live for his shore leave, ache for him to walk through that door and know that my misery is paused for a few days. I long for his touch and I dream about his laugh." Sid held up his hands, and Brandon saw evidence there of broken fingers, healed poorly. He touched his face, and now Brandon could see what he believed were dirt smudges were actually faded, healing black eyes. Dubi swept his eyes down Sid's bare chest; the amount of fresh scars there, compared to last time he'd seen Sid, were enormous.

"You seem to be afraid of your crew killing or hurting me," he continued. "Being hurt is nothing new in my life. The way I see it, either your crew is going to respect Boone or Foligno - assuming he commands them not to kill me - enough that they'll allow me to serve them with perhaps less pain than I get today, or they'll kill me in short order as soon as I get on board. Either option is acceptable to me at this point."

Brandon sighed, dragging his gaze away from Sid's wide-eyed expression. _Fuck_. Could they really bring Crosby on board and have the boys not kill him immediately? Would Boone really be okay with everyone - including Brandon - fucking him? Would Nick ever even consider it? There was something to be said, some delicious irony, about having his former enemy required to please him, plus it would make Boone happy, to have him on board. But it would certainly be easier to take a stranger, some other slave -

Dubinsky's train of thought was roughly derailed at the hand pressing against his crotch. Startled, he looked down to see Crosby nudging at his pants. "You're still unsure," Sid declared, correctly.

"No shit."

"I'm going to make you sure."

Brandon was quite sure he'd never loved anything or anyone as much as Crosby obviously loved Boone, to look this eager to sexually submit to his enemy. But this is what Brandon was sent here for, wasn't it? He'd already paid, after all. "Alright, then," Brandon muttered, tangling his fingers in Sid's hair and yanking up to stare in his face. "Let's see what you've got, Crosby."


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time in a long time, Brandon saw his Captain speechless.

"And you're... _not_ fucking with me?" Foligno asked, having just heard the tale of Dubinsky's evening. "No, I don't suppose you are, you're not creative enough to think of this shit."

"Ouch."

"Couldn't resist." Nick let his mouth twitch up in a quick smirk before the exasperated look settled back on his features. "It's going to take _weeks_ to repair the ship in this state. Plenty of time for Boone to desert if he's thinking of it. Going to need to get creative to keep - "

"So you're...not considering...?"

Nick's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Excuse me, are you saying I _should_ consider buying Crosby? Of all the people I never figured I'd hear that from, you probably top that list. Did something change your mind?"

"A few things." Brandon fidgeted in his chair. "First, he's cheap. I mean, dirt cheap. Once the Madame found out Boone is leaving, she didn't want him anymore. Apparently Boone is the only one that can keep him under control. Before Boone, there were some...incidents, with Crosby."

"Incidents."

"Basically, he'd try and kill anyone who walked through the door, if given half a chance."

Nick snorted. "Well, that sounds about right."

"But Boone..." Dubinsky shrugged. "I guess Crosby's desperate enough to be with Boone that he behaves. She'd sell him to us at the same price we originally sold him for."

"And how much are the other slaves going for?"

"A different male slave? Over twice that. A different female slave? Five times for the _worst_ of the bunch. Trust me, sir, some of them weren't pretty. The other brothels were even more expensive." Brandon crinkled his nose. He could see Nick doing the math in his head, starting to scowl at the prices he was calculating. "Secondly, I did, uh, 'vet him out', and I gotta say...uh....well..."

"Spit it out."

"It was possibly, maybe, probably the best blowjob I've ever had." Brandon muttered this softly, a little embarrassed.

"Oh, you think I'm going to bust your balls over that?" Nick set his chin on one of his hands, elbow resting on the table. "Because I definitely am. But later. Anything else?"

"Just..." _Boone, he really might desert and if I had to watch him hang, I'd never fucking get over it._ But Brandon didn't say that. He was hurt, and angry at Boone over falling for Sidney fucking Crosby and putting them in the position to even have this conversation, but Boone was still his best friend, and Brandon preferred him alive. Instead, he said, "It would be a real status symbol for you, eh? I mean, think about it. Here's the captain of the _Penguin,_ the dangerous pain-in-the-ass scourge of all pirates in these waters, and he's...yours. Your _slave."_

"Hmm." Brandon could see that one moved Nick, and he cocked his head in thought. "Perhaps. I'll think about it. But first, we should see if Boone is even amenable, no?"

~~~~~

"Bam Bam. Hey. Booner. Boone, wake up!"

Boone groaned sleepily as someone started shaking his shoulders. He swatted his hands upwards, hitting a solid mass, and blearily opened his eyes to find Cam Atkinson standing over him.

"Cammer," Boone mumbled. "Whaddaya - m'sleepy, go 'way."

"Boone, the Captain wants to see you in his cabin _pronto,_ buddy."

"What? The Captain?" A surge of adrenaline startled Boone a little more awake. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get them to adjust to the dark; they protested, still unfocused and bleary. He'd been up for hours, scrubbing the decks of blood, being punished for running out on Foligno earlier in the evening. Boone had expected some sort of consequence, but it had been hours of hard work, and he could still smell the copper tang. He was normally pretty immune to blood and gore and injuries - he was a pirate, after all - but combined with the sickening realization about Sid, his stomach hadn't cooperated all night. Sometimes he spent just as much time throwing up over the edge as he did mopping the deck, and it left him drained and spent. He realized he'd sweated through his sheets.

"Yeah. Dubi's there, too," Cam said, and Boone realized that Brandon's bed was empty, untouched. "I don't know what it's about, but it seems urgent."

"Thanks, bud," Boone murmured, pulling on his boots and a shirt to go with the pants he was still wearing, and stumbling out the door.

He stopped in front of the captain's cabin, lit bright, and idly wondered what time it was. Late. Or early, as the case may be. His stomach twisted with nerves; this was highly unusual, to be roused out of bed like this when they weren't actively being attacked. But the fact that Brandon was in there calmed him down, a bit. He knew Dubi had his back.

He rapped once, sharply, was told to enter, tried to keep his expression untroubled as he walked in the door. Nick looked calm and relaxed, as usual, not tired at all, but Brandon looked rumpled, like Foligno had punished him with some sort of work, as well. Dubi was not nearly as good as hiding his emotions as Nick, and he had an odd look on his face that ratcheted up Boone's alarm. "Captain," he greeted Nick with a confused nod. "Dubi. What, uh...what's going on?"

Brandon and Nick shared a look that Boone distinctly did not like before turning back. "I apologize for rousing you," Nick said. "I know you've had a long night. But I felt this couldn't wait. Go ahead, Dubi."

"You know," Brandon started slowly, "It always hurt me. That you had this other life, this...ahem, _'girlfriend',_ that you clearly love to death, and you never told me anything about her. Not even her name, man. I shared everything with you. I had no secrets from you. But you had a secret from me."

Boone just stared, feeling rooted to the floor. _Oh God, oh no, fuck, fuck, fuck._

Dubinsky laughed, disbelief tinging his chuckle. "But now I know why you never told me shit. Hell, Bam Bam, if I was in your position...I probably wouldn't have said nothin', either."

"Boone," Nick said, and his tone wasn't unkind, although it had the same disbelieving note that Brandon had. "Sidney Crosby? Really? You're aware - you have to know who he is? Or, I should say, what he used to be?"

Boone wasn't sure if he could puke again after doing it all evening, but his stomach certainly threatened to try. "I don't know what to say."

"Come, sit," Nick indicated the empty chair, "and tell us the truth."

Boone walked over to the chair in a daze, slumping down and deliberately avoiding the looks from both other men in the room. He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "I never...I didn't _mean_ for this to happen," he started. "It was a fluke. One night the brothel was just crazy, the Russians were in town, and there was a wait list a mile long for the women. So they offered to get me in right away with a guy, and I thought, well, not my favorite, but I don't wanna wait, so what the hell, right?" Now that he started, he was aware that he was rambling, words tumbling over themselves. "Just one night, get off, get out, whatever. But, Jesus, I walked into that room, and there he was. Sid."

"Why didn't you just leave?" Nick asked.

"You don't know how close I came to doing that," Boone said. "But...he just looked so miserable. He was chained to the bed by his neck, and his hands were tied together, someone had punched him and he had a black eye, and he was skinny, cigar burns everywhere...I can't believe we did that to him, Captain. It was horrifying."

Brandon snorted. " _Horrifying,_ from a man that I personally watched gut at least five Pittsburgh men, when we were at war with them? I mean you fucking sliced them chin to dick - "

"War is different - "

"- and it's not like we had a choice in the matter, it's not like we could get back to Pittsburgh to ransom him off. So it was a slave ship, a brothel, or killing him, and two of those options made us some money, and there wasn't any slave ships passing through at the time. And quite frankly, with what he's done to us, I'm glad he was miserable."

Boone whipped his gaze to Dubinsky's, eyes narrowing. "If you would have seen him - it's not _right,_ Dubi. Nobody deserves what he was going through. Can you imagine, living in a fucking 6 foot radius around a bed that you get _raped_ in multiple times every single fucking day? With nothing else to do? He couldn't even reach the window to see out!"

"Oh please, 'nobody deserves it'? He did! He _does!_ " Brandon threw up his arms in frustration. "Should I remind you of the names, Boone? Anton Forsberg, Sam Gagner, Scott Hartnell, William Karlsson...I mean, should I keep going? They're all dead, directly because of Crosby and his fucking ship!" He snarled. "I personally watched him shoot Hartsy in the head myself. So yeah, you'll excuse me if I don't feel any sympathy for his plight." He glanced at Boone's hands, curled into fists. "I always knew you were soft at heart, but this is something else."

"Dubi," came the rebuke from Nick, frowning. Then, to Boone: "Calm yourself. We may have a proposition for you."

Boone was nearly shaking in an effort to not go after Brandon. He held himself back on account of their long friendship, not to mention the Captain's presence, but he was deeply hurt. He took a long, calming breath, then nodded at Nick. "I'm listening."

"Just to clear things up first, it sounds like you stayed that first night out of sympathy, but then you...fell in love with him? Is that right?"

"He was just so excited to have someone that didn't treat him like shit," Boone told him. "We talked all night, that first night - "

Dubinsky snorted. "You didn't even fuck him?"

Boone took a another deep breath for calm before continuing, ignoring Brandon. "And he was funny, and kind, and...so yeah, I went back. Again and again and soon I just...fell in love, and...I don't know, sir. I really never meant for it to happen. But yes, I love him. More than anything."

Brandon at least had the good sense to look a little ashamed of his behavior at that last declaration. Nick nodded slowly.

"If there's one thing I know, it's that love is a weird, fucked up thing, Boone," Foligno replied. "You can't control it. You haven't let this...affair hurt your work or your loyalty, either. You've done an amazing job over the last year. If anything, you've gotten better. So. I was thinking that we might be able to bring him onto the ship." Nick held up a hand at Boone's sudden, ecstatic expression. "Hold on until you hear the conditions. He's a whore now, and he'll be the same with us. Everyone on the ship has a job, and his is going to be making sure the boys have a way to blow off steam. Whether it's Crosby or not, we think it will be important to have someone on board to fulfill these duties. It will be a long trip, and a great unknown at our destination to what sort of brothels they have there."

Nick watched carefully as Boone's expression twisted from pure joy to a slow realization, grinding his teeth together in disappointment.

"Yes, I'm sure you realize that this means your shipmates and fellow crewmen will be having sex with him," Nick said. "And if you can't handle that...well, I'm not sure I would blame you. It's a hell of a thing to wrap your mind around."

"But wouldn't it make more sense - he's an accomplished sailor, Captain, he could be a real asset to the crew - "

Nick smiled, gently. "First off, I'd be a fool to allow him onto any station critical to running this ship. If he gets a chance to sabotage us, I fully believe he would take it. But further, you know as well as I do that pirates are a dime a dozen. Sometimes we have more recruits than we know what to do with. But none of them are willing to do a whore's job."

"He wants to come on board. He understands the terms," Brandon piped up, and shrunk back a little at Boone's wide-eyed look, clouding in anger at the realization.

"You went there," Boone growled. "To the brothel. That's how you found out, you _went there,_ and you - did you fuck him?"

"Uh - well - I, I mean - "

"Did you _fuck him,_ Dubi?"

Brandon swallowed thickly, but then sat up as tall as possible, looking resolute. "Yeah, Boone. I did. And you know what? He asked for it. _Begged_ for it, because he knows this is the only chance he has of getting on this ship. And..." Brandon growled, clenching his fists. "Boone, I'm so fucking annoyed that you put me in the position of advocating for goddamn Sidney fucking Crosby because of how much I fucking love you. See, without you, he doesn't feel like life is worth much, and I think you probably love him just as hard, don't you, you idiot? So stop looking at me like that," he said, casting his eyes to the floor, away from Boone's uncomfortable stare. "I'm trying to _help_ you here."

"You got a funny fuckin' way of showing it."

"Boone," Nick leaned over the table. "If we do this, you're going to need to be okay with this kind of stuff. You are going to need to be okay with Dubi fucking your boy. Because it's going to happen, all the time. I'm doing you a favor, here, but if it's going to cause problems, I can't have it."

Boone blew out a shaky breath between his teeth. The idea was loathsome to him. He was _not_ okay with Dubi, or anyone else, fucking Sid. But...

But the alternative was never seeing him again. And he'd still be in the brothel, having sex with men that weren't Boone, anyway. At least for a little while. Boone had no doubts that Sid would find a way to kill himself, or get himself killed, somehow, someway. The world without Sid in it... _Boone's_ world without Sid in it...would be a very sad one, indeed.

_I'll desert._ The thought went through his mind, fleetingly, but was quickly discarded. It was a small island; Boone didn't have a ship and couldn't afford one, to get away. Boone couldn't even afford to buy Sid out of the brothel. There was only one realistic plan to spend the rest of his life with Sid, and it was in front of him, even if the conditions were terrible. So, he made his decision.

"I'll be fine."

Nick arched an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Why don't you sleep on it and tell me your decision in the morning."

"I'll be _fine,_ Captain," Boone said, standing up. "But if you'd like me to re-confirm in the morning, yes, I'd be happy to."

"Alright, Boone," Nick nodded. "You're dismissed, then. Go to bed. Sleep in a little. And talk to me in the morning." Boone stiffly rose from his chair, heading out the door without a backwards glance, and Nick shared a look with Brandon. "Talk to the crew, Dubi. Let me know."

~~~~~

That morning, Brandon Dubinsky regarded the silent, shell-shocked crew huddled in the quarters around him with a grim smile. Everyone, minus Foligno and Jenner, were present, and Dubi had just had the honor of telling them all who Boone was in love with, and Foligno's tentative plan.

"Sidney fucking Crosby," Cam Atkinson was the first to break the silence. "Did somebody hit Boone on the head, or something? Brain injury, does anyone remember?"

"He's never been the smartest guy on board," Seth Jones retorted, to laughter.

"But not the dumbest, Jonesy - that would be you," Cam shot back, grinning.

Brandon held up his hands. "I know it's fucked, boys. But I saw it myself. Boone loves this guy more than Andy loves money."

Josh Anderson snorted, shaking his head. "I find that hard to believe. I love money a whole fucking lot. We're not actually thinking about bringing this fuckface on board, are we? Dubi?"

Brandon scrubbed his face with his hands. "I...I dunno, boys. That's why I'm here, so we can vote on it. Thing is, I might love Bam Bam more than I hate Crosby. I don't know what he's gonna do if we just leave him here and Boone can't never see him again."

"Sounds like you love Boone as much as Crosby loves him," Cam mocked, playfully, sticking a finger through an 'O' made from his other hand's thumb and forefinger. Brandon flipped him off, smirking.

"Well, Dubi, did you fuck him? At the brothel?" Alex Wennberg called from the back of the room.

"Yup." He rolled his eyes, waiting for the wolf whistles and chirps to die down.

"And?"

"I mean..." He snickered, shaking his head. "Shit, boys, I gotta admit, he's learned a thing or two in that brothel. He could suck a square peg through a round hole. He was shockingly enthusiastic."

"Well, I would be, too, if that was the only way to stay with the one I loved," Ryan Murray spoke up, quietly.

"I bet you'd do it anyway," Dubinsky jeered at him.

"You gotta get men _ready_ for sex," Anderson whined. "You can't just, like, plunge in, like you can with the ladies."

"If you're just 'plunging in' with the ladies, Andy, remind me never to buy a whore after you've had her, okay?" Brandon smirked at Josh to giggles from the others.

David Savard stepped forward, with a mean smile on his face. "Boys, there's something we're not thinking about here. Crosby's a slave, right? So Crosby will be _our_ slave. Which means we can do whatever we want to him."

"You can't kill Boone's boy, Savy."

"No, I ain't saying that!" Savard held up his hands. "But a whore can still fuck with a black eye or two, can't he?"

"Jesus, Savy. Yeah, sure. But you're the one answering to Boone about beating up his boy."

Savard didn't answer, just made a small, pleased noise, and Dubi cleared his throat.

"Alright, boys, well, there it is. I should also mention he's pretty fucking cheap, meaning we don't have to dip into ship coffers too much, also meaning _you_ get paid more. He sucks like he ain't got no teeth and well, Bam Bam fucking loves him. Also, you can rest assured if you're still pissed at Crosby like I am, then despite what he says about wanting to come aboard, he's gonna be fucking miserable being a sex slave to the likes of you all, and, well, that's good enough for me. Boone's happy, Crosby ain't. Let's take a vote, shall we?"

It passed by two. "Ah, fuck you guys," Anderson muttered, looking disappointed.

Brandon grinned at the group. "Alright. I'll let the Captain know. You've made your decision, don't come yappin' to me about it."


	10. Chapter 10

_\- don't know what I'll do if you leave, and I'm stuck here without you. The idea is terrifying. It kept me up last night. I'll be truthful, Boone: I'll wait, a bit. Just in case things are worse out there or something unforeseen happens and you turn around, decide to remain in these waters. Just in case you come back to me. But if you don't -_

Sid's hand wavered over the paper, the letter he was writing to Boone, as the door to his room swung open. As it did every time, he had a mixture of emotions. Hope, that maybe it was Boone. Dread, that it probably wasn't. Annoyance, at having to pause his writing; he was just getting on a roll. And a catalogue of every sore spot and painful place that he was going to try and steer whatever man walked through the door away from. Right now his knees were killing him, so the plan was to try and be on his back most of the night. Maybe on top.

He nearly dropped the lead at the figure in the doorway. "Dubinsky?"

Brandon looked uncomfortable at being back in the brothel. "Get up, we're going to the ship."

Now Sid did drop the pencil, eyes lighting up. "So you decided - "

"Uh-uh." Dubinsky held up a hand. "Not yet. This is a trial run. Tonight you get to come and spend the evening with our Captain, and if you make him happy, then yeah, maybe you get on the ship. Leave your shit," he said, as Sid scrambled around for his meager belongings. "We'll collect it later. Assuming you do a good job tonight."

Brandon stepped into the room, and Sid noticed he had a rope in his hand. He supposed it did make sense that he wouldn't be allowed to walk the streets freely. Although, Sid was tempted to ask, where would he run to? On a small island, overrun with pirates and pirate bars and pirate brothels and every other illicit kind of pirate business?

Instead, he just held out his wrists, together and in front of him, not saying a word while Dubinsky tied them together.

"They're a little tight," Sid snapped as the final knot went on.

"Better than too loose," Brandon shot back, taking a second, longer length of rope and looping it around the knot to create a sort of tether, which he attached to his belt. "There. Now you're not going anywhere."

"If you think I'd try anything, when I'm so close to getting out of here - "

"You're not getting out of these bonds until you're locked in with the Captain, so just stop fucking jabberin' about it."

Sid fell quiet with a poorly-disguised sigh. After an eye roll from Brandon, they were out the door and down the stairs. There was a few men hanging about in the lobby, and they hooted and hollered at the pair. Crosby was long past caring. _Stare and catcall all you want, assholes. I'm getting the hell out of here._

As they walked through the streets, Sid mentally went over his game plan with Foligno tonight. That was something he was absolutely not looking forward to; he still had some dignity, small as it might be, and this was bound to be a humiliating evening. But for Boone, he'd do it. The biggest thing he resolved to do was simply to not say no. Let Nick ask of him what he will, and Sid would do it with a smile, if it meant getting to spend every evening from now until forever next to Boone.

As they moved out of the town and got closer to the dock, Sid took a few deep breaths. All he'd smelled for the past few years was cheap booze and sex, sometimes the fruit trees out back as he tended to the garden. But here it was, the smells and sound of the sea that he had missed so much. Even the sight of the ships as they got closer, pirate though they may be, brought a thrill of excitement and longing. It hit him hard, and he felt tears threatening that he was able to successfully blink back, biting his tongue to distract him from the memories of his previous life.

"What's your deal?" Dubinsky asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Sid cleared his throat. Perhaps he'd not been as successful as he'd thought at hiding his emotions. "Just, uh...getting close to the ocean. From where the brothel is, you can see it, but you can't really hear the waves or smell the salt water very well. The sea had been my constant companion since I was eight. I've missed it."

"Oh." Brandon gave him an odd look - was that pity? Sid tightened his jaw in annoyance. He didn't need pity, but especially not from Dubinsky. It was too fucking late for _that._

The ship was running on bare bones crew at this late hour, but there were a few men on deck, sails draped across their laps, patching them up. Sid noted the damage to the _Blue Jacket_ and other ships in port; rigging, sails, hulls, every ship had taken some sort of damage from the attack. He wondered where the _Penguin_ was. He knew they were slated to head back to Pittsburgh about six months after he'd been captured, their three year mission finished. That had been a low point in his life, knowing his only saving grace was heading back across the ocean, back home, away from him. Still, he prayed every day that they were safe. The not knowing for sure was the worst.

Sid was marched down the _Blue Jacket_ stairs to stand in front of a door, which had clearly been taken from a merchant ship. The wood was rich oak and there was a beautiful stained glass window showing a bare-chested mermaid. Light streamed out of the window, throwing shades of blue and green on Sid's bare chest. Otherwise, the window was too opaque to see what he would be walking into.

"Listen," Brandon dropped his voice to a murmur. "The Captain is going to try and test you in every capacity tonight due to our shared... _history._ So you want to earn his trust, you nod your head and say 'yes sir' and do whatever he wants. You got it? If I hear you fucked this up, and I have to see Boone crushed..."

"Nobody wants this more than me," Sid leveled back at Brandon. "It'll be fine."

Dubinsky narrowed his eyes at Sid skeptically, but nodded, knocking on the wood and swinging it open once called. He smiled at Nick in greeting, unhooking the rope from his belt and giving Sid a shove into the room. "Captain, as requested..."

Foligno glanced up from a stack of maps, where he was in the middle of making notes. "Thank you, Brandon," he replied slowly, distractedly, as he finished up whatever he was writing and finally set the pen aside. Nick was sitting at an ornate, wooden desk, large enough that he could push all his maps and notes and reports to one side of the desk and still have a large empty space in front of him. The chair he was sitting in was even more impressive. High-backed, plush, there was nearly enough room to fit two men side-by-side. No doubt these were more stolen items. Otherwise, the room was relatively sparse, almost military - it reminded Sid of his old cabin - and nothing like other pirate captain cabins he'd seen, which was usually decked out in gold and other flashy trinkets.

Nick's overcoat, vest, belts, and hat hung on a hook beside the door, so he was dressed informally - just boots, pants, and a soft night shirt, half-unbuttoned and hanging open. Although it didn't seem like a big deal, this rankled Sid more than anything. To greet a visiting captain, even an enemy one, tradition indicated full uniform. Even pirates generally recognized this dress code, especially an ex-Navy man like Foligno. Nick's casual state of dress told him that Sid was no longer considered an equal. He didn't even have any obvious weaponry on him; another insult, showing he was unconcerned with Crosby as a threat. Sid was quite sure it was all done on purpose.

He gestured to Sid to walk forward and stand beside him, next to the desk, then turned back to Brandon, who was shifting uncomfortably in the doorway. "Dubi, you can go now. Make sure Boone stays in your cabin with you until it's time."

Brandon just nodded. "Sir," he acknowledged, and then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Sid frowned at the command. Boone - until it's time - ...for what? But he didn't have a chance to ask. Instead, Nick smiled at him, but it was a cold smile, and didn't reach his eyes. "Sidney," he greeted, and Sid had to bite back a grimace. His full first name in Foligno's mouth seemed off, wrong, too intimate.

Instead, he nodded back. "Hello, sir."

"Kneel for me, Sidney, won't you?"

If Nick wanted submission, that was one thing Crosby had a lot to give. If he had to throw his pride out the window to be here, so be it. Sid began to kneel, slowly due to his bound hands in front of him and his sore knees, trying to make the landing a bit softer. He was halfway down when, without warning, Foligno backhanded him hard across the face. Sid toppled sideways, landing hard enough to take his breath away for a moment. One of Nick's rings caught Sid on the cheek, just an inch or two below the eye, and he could feel blood trickling down like a teardrop.

He was tempted, for just a moment, to protest as he got his breath back. _I was kneeling!_ But he knew the type; some men just wanted to hit you, no matter how obedient you were or what you did. He never pegged Foligno for that kind of man, but then, he wasn't really surprised by anything, anymore. Instead, he said nothing, just struggled to right himself upward and get to his knees.

"Did you really think you could walk onto _my_ ship without any consequences?" Nick's smile was gone now, and there was anger in his eyes. Sid took it for a rhetorical question and bowed his head, trying to appear cowed and submissive, but Foligno snarled and spat at him. "Answer me! Or do you forget who you are?"

"No, sir," Sid replied, eyes still on the floor. "I've not forgotten who I am. Although I am not the same man that I used to be."

"That's for damn sure. What a fall from grace, Sidney. Almost makes me sick to look at you. But if you remember who you _were,_ then you also surely remember why you're receiving this treatment."

"I can't change the past."

"No," Nick mused, and suddenly he leaned forward, placing a solid kick to Sid's chest and toppling him backwards. His knees screamed as they overextended, but nothing seemed injured, and Sid rolled onto his stomach and began to struggle back to his knees, only to be held down to the floor by Nick's boot on his upper back. "You can't change the past. But what about the future? Do you know what's going to happen if we catch your precious ship?" Foligno knelt, now, threading his fingers into Sid's hair and pitching his head back to murmur in his ear. "We're going to kill them, Sidney. Every single one of your crew. We'll bring Letang and that big fellow - what's his name, Malkin? Well, the rest of the ship, we'll just sink, but those two boys, we'll bring on board. And we'll let you watch while we flog them and then cut their heads off." Nick released his hair, and Sid's head bounced off the floor, bringing fresh blood to the cut below his eye. "They'll be screaming, pleading for mercy. We won't make it quick. And I'll make you watch every second of it. Do you think you can handle that?"

Sid grit his teeth at the threats, but his voice was calm in the reply, knowing that the _Penguin_ was far across the ocean now - at least, until and if she was redeployed. "I would expect nothing less towards your enemies, Captain."

"Stand up." Sid got to his feet, as quick as he could, which wasn't very fast at all, considering the circumstances. He noted with a bit of alarm that Foligno had his dagger out and was advancing, but Nick just stopped in front of him and cut his bonds. Sid pulled his arms apart, the rope falling to the floor, staring in bewilderment at his now-free hands. Why...?

"Here's your chance, Sidney," Nick taunted, throwing his dagger on his desk. "Here, I'll even make it a fair fight. Or are you just that broken?"

_He's trying to provoke me,_ Sid realized, sharply, and slowly shook his head at Nick. Foligno shoved him a few times, along the side of his stomach, his shoulder, soft points meant to annoy him, but Sid didn't make a move, just stumbled backwards at the pushes. 

"No, maybe you were just never a real man," Nick sneered. "They say some people are just born to be whores, is that you? Maybe we did you a favor by getting you into your one true calling. You're only good for being on your knees, aren't you?" 

Sid bit his lip, taking deep breaths for calm. "Do you want me on my knees?"

Nick smirked at the question. "Oh, I'll get you there," he said, and followed it with another backhand which did drop Sid to a knee, holding his face, the once-small cut now gushing blood.

"I bet your ship is so happy now that their whore captain is finally gone," Nick goaded. Sid didn't take the bait, though, just standing back up in front of Nick and waiting, silently.

"Nothing to say, Sidney? Maybe I should just kill you now." Foligno grabbed the dagger again, pressing the blade to Crosby's neck. "Put you out of your misery. What do you think?"

Sid lifted his chin for the blade, exposing his throat. "If you're going to put me back in the brothel instead, I welcome death," he replied, evenly, keeping his gaze locked on Nick's. "Of course, I'd prefer if it was swift, but...it's whatever you wish. Sir."

"Is the brothel that bad, or do you just love Boone that much?"

"Both."

Nick cocked his head, looking thoughtful. "If we elect to keep you...do you realize that I'd be buying you? Despite your relationship with Boone, you would belong to me and my ship. You continue your relationship on my good whims and allowance. We're not exactly the best of friends, Sidney. Have you really thought through the implications of being a slave to pirates?"

"I'm already a slave to pirates, back at the brothel. Allow me to spend my free time with Boone and I will serve you and your ship loyally."

They stared at each other silently for a long moment, then Nick took a step back, shaking his head. "You still have a little spirit left in you, I suppose," he said, popping the dagger back in his boot. His demeanor shifted from aggressive to something a bit more neutral, relaxed. "Let me assure you, Crosby, I did not enjoy what we just did. I don't take my pleasures in dominating other men...although there will be boys on this ship that do, and you'll need to deal with that. No, I needed to be sure you could be faced with violence, and taunts against you and your loved ones, every day, and still be submissive. My boys aren't going to kill you, I'll make sure of it, but they don't love you on this ship, as I'm sure you're not surprised to hear. Most of them will respect Boone enough to not hurt you, just be a little rough. Some of them, though...you may get slapped around a bit."

"That's no different than today." Sid figured the first few months on board would be the worst, as the _Blue Jacket_ crew got their aggression out. But there was an X factor to the ship that he didn't have on the brothel: familiarity. A stranger could come into Sid's room and toss him around without a second thought. But he'd get to know these men on board, would see them time after time, and Sid knew it would be tough to remain consistently hostile with that type of relationship. Especially if Sid did everything and anything they wanted.

"If you come aboard, the second you fight back, I will kill you personally. And I may kill Boone, as well. Do you understand?"

Sid swallowed thickly. His own death he could accept easily, but knowing he was also responsible for Boone's... "Yes. I understand."

Nick moved over to the door, cracking it open nodding at the man stationed outside. "Bring me Jenner in fifteen...no. Twenty minutes." Then it was shut again, and he strode over to the water bucket, dipping a cloth into the barrel and tossing it to Sid. "Wash your face. You've got blood everywhere."

Sid wiped his cheek, hissing at the sting of the salt water, and sure enough, the cloth was streaked with red. He pressed it back to his face. "You're bringing Boone in, sir?"

"That's right." Nick sat back down, leaning back in the giant chair. "That was your test. Now this is his. I'm going to fuck you, Crosby, and he's going to be in here when I do. I need him to watch. I need him to understand very clearly who you'd belong to on this ship, and it is not him."

Sid nearly choked on the _NO_ that threatened to burst from his throat, instead just making a strangled gasp.

"He's going to need to to be okay with you giving away your...services, to his crew mates and friends. And to me. He says all the right things, but if he can handle this, I'll know it's true. Oh, and one more thing." Nick pulled off his boots before continuing. "Despite your obvious reluctance to let Boone watch this, just remember, it's still me that makes the final decision whether you come on board or not. And I like... _enthusiasm,_ in my whores. I don't care if you do or do not enjoy yourself tonight, but it had better seem like you want nothing else in this entire world except for me. Do you understand?"

Sid nodded, silently, not trusting himself to speak.

"Good. Now get naked, and come over here."


	11. Chapter 11

Back in his room, Boone was so nervous that he felt queasy. He knew that Sid was with Foligno right now, and they were...

Well. He didn't want to think about what they were doing. He _knew,_ but that didn't mean he needed to torture himself with the idea. And as much as he loathed that Sid had to do it, Boone was confident that he would do anything it took to make Nick happy and bring him on board.

Brandon had busied himself with Stinger, brushing his feathers and feeding him treats, deliberately keeping out of Boone's way, and he was glad for it. He was still pissed at Dubinsky, angrier than he'd ever been at his best friend. Every so often the thought of Brandon on top of Sid popped unbidden into Boone's brain and it took all he could not to scream and punch Dubi. _Did you treat him well? Did you get him ready enough? Or did you hurt him, too?_ he wanted to ask, but part of him simply wanted to pretend it never happened, and asking those questions would make it seem real again.

So he said nothing.

"Hello!" Stinger squawked suddenly, and Boone instinctively lifted his head for the knock he knew would be coming. The parrot had an uncanny sense when they'd have visitors; Boone figured he could hear something the two men could not. As if on cue, there was a knock, and a summon for Boone to the captain's cabin.

Jenner sighed, gut twisting further in anxiety. Sid and Nick must be finished, and now Boone would learn his fate. Based on when Brandon had returned with Sid, they'd fucked surprisingly fast. Boone wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign. Maybe Nick had only requested a blowjob.

Boone was preoccupied with his thoughts as he moved, enough so that he was surprised to be standing suddenly in front of the mermaid. He barely recalled getting from his room to this cabin, but here he was, and the moment of truth. Taking a deep breath, he knocked, received permission, and entered.

The door closed slowly behind him as he struggled to make sense of the scene before him. Sid was straddling Nick, facing him, kneeling on the chair to help keep himself on Foligno's lap. Nick was fully dressed, but Sid was shirtless - no...naked, Boone realized, as he stepped forward, Sid's bottom half mostly hidden by the huge desk. He was also blushed a deep red, much deeper than the pretty flush he usually took on when they were intimate and he was turned on. At first, Boone figured that it was simple embarrassment, and who could blame him? He and Foligno used to be peers, equals, and now Sid was perched on his lap like a common wench.

But, as Boone continued to step closer, he saw a bottle of oil on the edge of the desk, and Nick's rings sitting next to it. It became quickly apparently why he had them off; he had two fingers inside Sid, was pumping them slowly, slick with oil. As he watched his captain's fingers disappear inside Sid, it was like time stopped. He spluttered, wanting to ask _what the fuck, why, what's going on,_ a million questions, and instead all that came out was a horrified squeak.

Nick bumped his nose against Sid's chin, and he dutifully tilted his head back to give Foligno access. Boone could see his pulse, fluttering wildly in his neck, and Nick attached his mouth there, sucking hard. Sid locked eyes with Boone, and he looked more upset than Boone had ever seen him, devastated that Boone was in the room to see this.

Nick pulled his mouth away, and Boone could already see the mark forming, dark and ugly. He followed up with few a gentle, intimate kisses to Sid's jawline. _Possessive,_ Boone realized, sickly. Nick was marking Sid for his own, claiming property.

As Nick pulled back to look at Sid, his face had smoothed out to a half-lidded, longing expression from his previous shared dismayed glance with Boone, and he gave a low moan at the kisses. They sounded real, but Boone had internalized every groan, whimper, and whine that Sid had made for him over the past year, and he knew enough that it was fake, a convincing show put on for Foligno. That at least made him feel slightly better.

"Boone," Nick finally acknowledged him. He indicated a chair, about ten feet away from the desk, to the side. Not in front, Boone realized, because that would block the view, and Nick intended for him to see absolutely everything. "Sit. I know this is going to be tough for you, and I'm sorry. But I need to be absolutely sure you won't be jealous. I need you to understand that Crosby doesn't belong to you. And this is the best way I know how."

Sid whimpered suddenly, breath growing ragged, and Boone saw Nick's fingers fully seated inside, to the knuckles. "Tell me to stop, Boone, and I'll let him go."

The silent threat was implicit: _I'll let him go. But you can't have him then, either._ So Boone shook his head, set his jaw. "He's...he's all y-yours, Captain." He couldn't stop his voice from shaking, just the smallest amount.

Nick obviously noticed it, too, lifting an eyebrow at Boone, but turning back to regard Sid. "Yes, he is, isn't he," Nick mused, doing something with his fingers - Boone couldn't see what - that drew a fresh whine out of Sid. "I can see why you like him. So responsive."

_Please, oh please, stop talking,_ Boone prayed silently. He could take sitting here, watching, but hearing Nick _describe_ how much he liked Sid was too much. He swallowed a scream, settling back into the chair.

"Crosby," Nick murmured, kissing his neck again, "I think you need to take care of me, a little. Hmm?"

"Of course," Sid agreed, breathily, enthusiastically, and Nick withdrew his fingers, wiping them on his pants, the oil making an opaque smear. Sid slowly climbed off Nick's lap, settling in front of him on his knees with a slight wince. _His knees hurt tonight,_ Boone thought, and he wasn't quite sure why, but that knowledge upset him even more. Sid mouthed at the front of Nick's trouser and the obvious bulge there, until Nick lifted his hips and helped push his pants down, where they dropped and puddled on the floor. Gently wrapping his fingers around the base of Nick's cock, Sid licked up, slowly, keeping his gaze locked on Foligno's the whole time, until Nick's head tilted back and his eyes fell closed. The second they did, Sid shifted, ever so slightly, so he could bring his eyes to meet Boone's.

Sid's expression crumpled the moment Nick wasn't looking, like he had to make sure Boone knew he wasn't enjoying this. Behind his eyes were a sort of lifeless blankness that made Boone physically hurt at Sid's circumstances and what he was going through. Sid checked to make sure Nick's eyes were still closed, pulling off for just a moment to smile sadly at Boone before going back down on Nick.

Boone knew Sid was trying to convey silently, _this means nothing, he means nothing, I love you,_ but watching Sid blowing his captain, using techniques that Boone knew intimately, had dreamt about, jerked off to when they were stuck at sea, away from the brothel...he couldn't pretend that it didn't affect him. It was worse when Foligno reached down, grabbed Sid's hair and forced his head all the way down, until his nose was touching Nick's stomach. After a long moment, Sid pulled off, sputtering and choking, and there was a sudden shooting pain in Boone's wrist. He glanced down and saw his fist, white-knuckled on the chair, forced himself to relax it.

"That's it, take it," Nick cooed, feeding his cock into Sid's mouth again, and a stifled sound of agony from Boone brought Nick's attention to him while Sid coughed more at the assault on his throat. "Problems?"

"No," Boone replied, coldly, getting himself back under control, pushing down the simmering fury at Foligno.

"It's okay," Sid purred, sliding back into Nick's lap, shooting a wide-eyed, nervous glance at Boone. "No problems. I'm yours to use, Captain."

"Good boy," Nick replied, approvingly, sliding one hand down to cup Sid's ass and squeeze. The other hand reached up, tilting Sid's jaw downwards to meet his mouth with a deep kiss. Nick's eyes dropped closed again, and Sid kept stealing glances at Boone as he made out with Foligno, like he was needing to remind himself of what he was here for.

"Ride me," Nick growled against Sid's mouth once the kiss broke.

"God, yes," Sid whined, sounding quite convincingly like he wanted nothing more than to do exactly that.

Boone bit his tongue, his cheek, the inside of his mouth, anything to stop from screaming or crying out or cursing while Sid positioned himself above Nick's cock, starting to slide down. Foligno grabbed his hips to help, and Sid bit his lip with a low moan as Nick fully seated inside. _Fuck,_ Boone thought, and he wasn't sure if that was real or not, because Sid did the exact same lip-chewing when he was truly turned on. The fact that this was quickly turning into something Boone couldn't tell was an act or not was derailing him.

Boone managed to keep his face straight and neutral while Nick glanced over at him, but Foligno's attention quickly turned elsewhere when Sid started moving. "Fuck yes," he murmured, encouragingly, as Sid began riding him.

"Oh, God, please," Sid whimpered in response, sounding breathy and broken and _loving it,_ and Boone clenched his fists and pressed them against his face to hide his open-mouthed look of distress. He bit down hard on one knuckle, silencing a groan.

Sid seemed to notice, and he pulled Nick's face into the crook of his neck, clutching the back of his head to prevent him from seeing anything. He shook his head, barely perceptibly, at Boone, eyes fierce. _It's okay,_ he mouthed to Boone, even as he bounced up and down on Nick's lap, moaning loudly and making showy noises of pleasure. _I love you. I love YOU._ He gave a sneer down in Foligno's direction, looking disgusted, trying to convey his feelings for the man he was having sex with.

Boone nodded, eyes wide, and Sid mouthed again between groans: _OK?_

Slowly, Boone pulled his fists away from his face, feeling his mask - this dead look that said he was okay with everything going on, even though he most decidedly was _not_ \- going back on. _OK,_ he mouthed back to Sid, earning a brilliant smile.

Sid let Nick's head go, face immediately changing to a slack-jawed expression of need for Nick's sake; Boone noticed he had sucked another dark hickey at the spot. "You feel so fucking _good,"_ Sid encouraged as Nick drew his eyes back up, and now Boone definitely saw the act from his lover. He grinded down on Nick's lap with a pleading whine. "Please, sir, please? Need you to fuck me harder - I want - God, I want _more."_

"On the desk," Foligno snarled, and Sid lifted off him before he was grabbed and slammed on the desk by Nick, face-first towards the ceiling. One of Nick's rings fell off the desk with a _ting,_ but neither man seemed to notice, wrapped up in each other. Sid pulled his knees in to his chest to allow access, and Nick took it, sliding between his legs and thrusting back in.

It was almost over, Boone could tell by Nick's erratic, hard thrusts, which shook and squeaked the desk, his growls and ragged panting, and suddenly Nick was pulling out, coming all over Sid's stomach, jerking himself to completion. Boone nearly let out a sigh of relief. At least it wasn't _inside_ Sid. That would have been too personal - nearly unforgivable.

Nick slumped back in his chair, looking spent. "Go," he dismissed Sid with a flick of his wrist. Sid rolled off the table, practically sprinting towards the other man, falling into Boone's arms.

"I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he was whispering, again and again, in Boone's ear.

"I know, I know, I love you too, forever," Boone murmured back. "Don't be sorry. Nothing to be sorry for." He wiped Sid's stomach clean with his sleeve and pulled him into a kiss. He smelled like sex, and Nick, and the thought turned his stomach but it was done, it was over, and Sid was in his lap, clutching him desperately, and he never wanted to let go.

"We'll collect your things in the morning," Foligno's voice cut through their embrace, and Boone looked around at Nick. He was dressed, again, pants pulled back up, and the only thing that indicated he'd just had sex was the sweat on his brow and the light flush on his face.

Boone's eyes went wide. "Does this mean...?"

"Like I told Crosby before. He acts up, I'll kill him myself, and then depending on circumstances, Boone, you might be next. If neither of you ever forgets that his body belongs to _my ship,_ and not yourselves, then you'll do just fine. Yes. He can come on board."

And suddenly Boone was laughing, joy bubbling out of him, kissing Sid over and over. "You can leave now," Nick's annoyed tone cut through their celebration. "Crosby, when I want to see you next, you'll be summoned. Otherwise, Boone...he can stay with you when off-duty, and do his work in the other man's quarters when he's wanted. We'll try to get you two a larger bed in our next raid. Or we can get him a hammock."

"What about Dubi?"

Nick shrugged. "I certainly can't make him sleep in the regular crew quarters with his position, and I can't give you two your own little honeymoon suite. Brandon stays where he is, with you."

"We'll deal," Sid whispered, and Boone knew that was true. Now that Sid was by his side, he could deal with anything.

"Thank you, sir," Boone nodded, feeling an odd mix of anger, resentment, and gratitude towards Nick. He was echoed by Sid, who grabbed his own pants and slid them on before following Boone out the door.


	12. Chapter 12

"He's staying _here?_ But - "

"I'm not sure why you think this is a surprise, Dubi. Of course he's staying here." Boone wrapped a possessive arm around Sid's waist, frowning at his roommate. "Where else would he go?"

"I guess I just didn't think..." Brandon trailed off, then jerked his head up in alarm. "He's not going to, um... _work_ in this room, is he?"

"He's right here. Why don't you stop referring to him in the third person and ask him?"

Sid took pity on Brandon and spoke up. "No. Not here. I'll go to them."

Dubinsky seemed to visibly relax at that. "Well, I'm...happy for you guys," he said, although his tone wasn't exactly cheerful. He flicked his eyes to Boone's small bed. "What are you doing to do about that?"

"Pick me up a bigger one, next raid. You know those merchant captains always have crazy beds," Boone responded.

"Yeah, but til then?"

"I'll be in a hammock."

Sid frowned, tilting his head at Boone. _"You'll_ be in a hammock? But it's your bed. That's not right. I'll take the hammock."

Boone scoffed. "No, you're taking the bed."

"You're the one out working with cannons all day - "

"Well _your_ work sucks, too - "

"I'm laying down all day!"

Dubinsky growled. "Oh for fuck's sake," he snarled. Then, to Boone : "Look. Take my bed, push them together, shut the fuck up, and I will sleep in the hammock. Okay?"

Boone knew this was Brandon's way of apologizing, for every fucked-up thing he'd said recently, without actually having to say the word 'sorry'. Still, he was grateful. "If you're sure. Thanks, Dubi."

"Take it before I change my mind, Bam Bam. And can we get him a fucking shirt already so he's not just half naked all the time? _Jesus."_

They did get him a shirt, and it made Boone sad to see just how thrilled he was with it. "I know it's silly," Sid told him, smoothing down the fabric on the arms, "But I haven't had a shirt since...well, it's been years." So, as much as Boone wanted to sleep skin-to-skin that night, he didn't complain when Sid left the shirt on to go to bed. He still wrapped his arms around the other man, burying his face in the back of Sid's neck and breathing deeply, his warmth and smell lulling Boone to sleep.

The next afternoon, there was a ship-wide meeting on deck. Amongst the topics, Sid was introduced; Boone watched him trying not to blush as every pair of eyes turned in his direction. He had his shirt collar turned up, trying to hide the dark hickeys that Nick had inflicted on him the night before, purplish and ugly now, but there were still a few knowing snickers.

"Also, boys, it's been decided," Nick announced. "We're going to Russia. Along with the _Capital._ We'll be traveling together for safety as we expect a lot of Canadian and American traffic through the Atlantic."

Russia! Boone didn't know anything about Russia, except that it was cold, much colder than the Caribbean. Brandon, for his part, looked harried; as the quartermaster, he was going to be responsible for procuring warm clothes and everything else they'd need for such a different climate.

"There will be more details later," Nick told the gathered assembly. "For now, our first priority is still fixing the ship. I want us ready to set sail in no more than three weeks, and even that is pushing it, so work fast and do what you can. You all have your orders on that. Dismissed."

Boone stretched, feeling grimy. They were going through an extensive cannon test right now with the rest of the gunner crew to ensure everything was in shipshape condition for the trip. Two of the gunners appeared next to him, obvious by their powder-streaked faces. "So that's your boy, Bam Bam?" Matt Calvert asked, nodding at Sid, who was surrounded by a few of the guys asking him questions.

"How do you know?"

Calvert and the other man - Ryan Murray - exchanged exasperated looks. "We only work with you about every day," Ryan explained, gently. "We knew you had a special person at one of the brothels - "

"Right, and all of a sudden, here's a _man_ to be the ship's, um...well..."

"Whore. You can say it, Matty," Boone smiled tightly, and Calvert returned it.

"Yeah, that. No way the Captain would have taken on a man unless nobody's selling a lady, which we know isn't true, _or_ he's doing it as a favor to someone."

"Also, the way you look at him. You're obviously in love." Ryan gave him a small smile.

"Yeah," Boone murmured, and the three returned their gaze back towards Sid. A few of the guys were still circling him, almost like sharks, obviously having said something to him that was a bit impolite, based on Sid's stony expression. Boone scowled, turned away. "Come on. He can take care of himself, that's the rule. We got work to do."

~~~~~

As Nick feared, the ship did take nearly three weeks to get back into full working order. And for 10, maybe 11 days of that, Sid's life was brilliant. The crew still had easy access to the island's brothels and were taking full advantage of the range of choices in women they afforded. For Sid, that meant there were entire days without unwanted sex; the first time that had happened in longer than he could remember. Nick put him to work, giving him simple jobs like scrubbing the deck and breaking down unused barrels, things that Sid couldn't sabotage or screw up. These were normally part of the crew duties, but every hand was on deck patching sails or repairing the hull or making an inventory of supplies, to try and make ready for their upcoming trip to Russia. Otherwise, for Sid, every free moment was spent with Boone, luxuriating in his presence, marveling that he was going to get to see him daily from now on.

But the crew's money started to run out on women and drink on the island, and as the days ticked down, they began to turn to Sid for their needs. He knew the first few weeks would be the roughest, and he did everything he could to mitigate that treatment. He was deferential. He was complimentary. He was submissive. Nevertheless, Sid came back to Boone each evening with a reminder somewhere on his skin, a split lip or bloody scratches down his back or an ass so red from being smacked it hurt to sit down. After the third day, Boone stopped asking who'd treated him like this. Sid refused to say a word, for both their sakes.

A few days before they anticipated finally setting sail, Sid was scrubbing down the crew quarters, ignoring the cat calls from the few men lounging within who were playing a game of cards. Their loud betting fell suddenly silent at the sound of footsteps, and then Nick appeared next to him, dragging his eyes down his shabby appearance. The crew cabin was filthy, and Sid was dirty and sweaty from trying to make it a bit tidier. "You're with me tonight," Nick told him. "Make yourself presentable and clean up first. Bring me dinner in my cabin and then await my next wishes." He turned, nodding at the card game. "Boys. Who's winning?"

"Andy, because he's fucking cheating!" The quip was said playfully; Sid was still trying to learn names of the crew, but he knew it was Seth Jones that said it. As one of the few black crew members, he was easy to remember.

Sid didn't know this 'Andy' guy, but he was a tall kid, young and scruffy, who laughed at the chirp and threw up an obscene gesture in Seth's direction. He'd learn later that _Andy_ was just a nickname for _Josh Anderson_ , but right now, Andy was all he knew.

"Sounds about right," Nick smirked, clapping Josh on the shoulder, and then he was gone. Anderson turned his attention towards Sid, grinning.

"Bringing the Captain dinner," he mused, "and sounds like you're dessert, huh, fuckface?"

Sid didn't answer; he figured it was a rhetorical question, and he was already thinking about the upcoming evening with a strange mix of relief and apprehension. On one hand, the few times Nick had demanded his presence after that first night, he'd been treated well. Sid never left the captain's quarters with strange bruises or cuts or pains, as Foligno seemed not to harbor any of the resentment or anger the crew still held onto towards Sid. That was nice. That was the _relief._

But on the other hand, it was a mentally difficult task to be with Nick. He could shut his brain off with the crew, blank himself out while they barked insults and tossed him around a little. It was business as usual, even if that business was terrible. With Foligno, even just stepping into the Captain's quarters brought a pang of regret and longing. Nick's room smelled of maps, of ink and paper, old familiar scents that reminded him of the _Penguin_ and his old life. Most of the time Sid could forget about the past; he had to, for his own sake, so he wouldn't go crazy. But it was impossible to ignore, seeing Nick looking over charts or penning a missive to someone. Fresh grief welled in his gut every time he stepped foot across that threshold.

Furthermore, Nick wouldn't accept anything less than devotion during the evenings they were together. He seemed to desire the fantasy of Sid being a grateful, loyal slave, excited to see him, itching for Nick's touch. He wanted Sid to treat him as if he was some sort of hero, rescuing him from a terrible life at the brothel instead of simply putting him into a similar situation on a ship. Worse, Nick liked to nip and suck possessive marks into his skin; he seemingly got a thrill from seeing the purplish hickeys that bloomed from his neck, inner thighs, and stomach after an evening spent with him. Sid tried to hide them from Boone, hated to see his thin-lipped scowl at the visible reminder of another man owning him. He wasn't usually successful.

"Hey," a voice snarled, and Sid jerked his head up from where he was staring at the scrub brush going in circles on the floor. Anderson stood over him now, teeth bared in threat. "I asked you a fucking question."

"Oh," Sid said, sounding contrite. "I'm sorry. I thought that was rhetorical - " He cut off with an _oof,_ doubling over as Josh put a boot in his side.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

_Rhetorical._ Sid realized that the pirate didn't know the word, but his brain was blank on how to explain it, especially with the large man hovering threateningly over him. "Well, uh - it means, um...you don't want an answer - "

"Why the fuck wouldn't I want you to answer me?"

"It's like a, uh...statement, for...dramatic effect?" _Oh Jesus, please know the word 'dramatic'._

Luckily, it seemed he did. "That's fucking stupid," he declared. "I want you to answer when I talk to you. Got it, whore?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes...sir?" Sid took a guess at the answer, bracing for another kick, but none came.

"Good," Anderson confirmed. "Now get up, and get naked."

The men at the card table groaned. "What the fuck, Andy, we're playing here," one of them complained.

"Well, deal me out a few hands," Josh instructed, still staring aggressively at Sid. "I'll be back in a few."

There was a few muttered curses and eye rolls, but the table continued to deal the hand, like it was no big deal that their friend was about to fuck someone in the corner of the room.

Sid got to his feet slowly, starting to remove his clothes. "Well, sir - uh, the problem is, if I'm visiting the Captain tonight, he's very, eh, _particular_ about being, um, fresh for him - "

"Are you saying no?" Josh squeezed his fists together menacingly.

"No! No, no. Just...with Nick's preferences, you can't be rough, or..."

Josh growled in frustration, lashing out with his fist, punching Sid on the side of the jaw. He stumbled back against the wall, stunned, his ear ringing and jaw numb and painful, clicking when he moved it. "Well get yourself ready then if you want it to be _gentle,_ and hurry the fuck up," Josh spat, stalking back over to the card table and demanding they deal him in the next few rounds.

Back in the brothel, Sid had taken to lubing himself up at the start of the night, understanding that most men who walked through his doors wouldn't be nearly so accommodating to help him out. He'd started doing the same, here on the ship, but hadn't expected to have any encounters before he was done scrubbing the crew quarters, so he was dry. He did the best he could with no real lube, his entire head hurting every time he opened his mouth to swipe fingers under his tongue for fresh spit.

So, Sid wasn't terribly surprised when the sex hurt, left him walking stiffly. He knew Foligno would be unhappy; but by the time food had been prepared, and he'd picked up Nick's dinner from the kitchen, he couldn't even close his mouth anymore. Unhappy was going to be an understatement.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Nick barked as Sid shuffled into his cabin, set the tray of food on the desk in front of him. "Close your mouth, you look like an idiot."

"Ah cahnt." Sid wiped his chin gingerly with his sleeve. He was drooling, with his mouth stuck open.

"You _can't?"_ Nick stood, abandoning his dinner momentarily, and touched around Sid's face and jaw, ignoring his winces. "Not broken. Dislocated though. Goddamnit...who did this to you?"

"Uhh...Ahdy?"

"Andy?"

"Uh huh."

"The kid who was winning that poker game in the crew quarters this afternoon, that Andy?" Sid nodded at the question, and Nick grit his teeth in irritation. He took two long strides to the door, flinging it open and screaming for Cam.

Atkinson rushed into the room moments later, panting. "...Captain?"

"Look what Josh fucking Anderson did to my whore," Nick seethed, gesturing at Sid's face. "Now he's going to need goddamn medical attention. Take him to the medic in town and get his face fixed. Here," Nick unlooped a small coil of rope, threw it in Cam's direction. "Don't lose him. Oh, and Crosby?"

"Uh?"

"Just because your mouth doesn't work for the moment, doesn't mean you're off the hook. Once you're done with the medic I still expect to see you."

Sid tried very hard not to sigh, nodding his head slowly in assent.

~~~~~

The medic gave Sid a little opium, popped his jaw back into place, and wrapped bandages around his head to hold everything where it should be. He was instructed to keep it bandaged for about a month. He could open his mouth enough to eat something like porridge, or oatmeal - but not enough to suck a dick. In a weird way, he was almost grateful for the injury, even though his jaw hurt like hell.

Sid couldn't pretend to get excited for Nick, not tonight, not after everything that had happened. He was still a little loopy from the opium, he'd missed dinner so he was hungry - not that he could really eat much, anyway - and there was a building migraine at the base of his skull. Nick was frustrated, decided he didn't want Sid in his condition, so he was sent back to Boone without the requested sex.

Brandon huffed in surprise when Sid appeared in the doorway of their room, and Boone cried out in dismay. "I think I figured out why we're having another ship wide meeting tomorrow morning," Dubinsky noted.

Boone, for his part, was attentive, apologetic, like he'd somehow caused Anderson to lash out. He held Sid, trailing fingers slowly through his curls, babbling softly about his day, the cannons and the work and how they were almost ready to leave. Sid found himself grateful this injury at least happened while they were close enough to access a doctor, and he slid into sleep in Boone's arms.

The next morning, Sid and Boone were last on deck for the called ship wide meeting, and Sid barely contained the shuddering gasp that threatened to rip from his mouth at the sight of what was in front of him. Anderson, from yesterday, looking very different than the brash, cocky young pirate Sid had encountered. Instead, he was lashed to the mast, shirtless, trying to keep a brave face on but being betrayed by his quivering mouth and shaking limbs. Foligno carried a flogger. It was a familiar scene. Sid felt vaguely nauseous.

"There he is," Foligno announced, and every eye turned towards Crosby. "Do you see him, boys? Take a look at him. Take a hard fucking look at him." Boone stepped backwards as Nick trotted towards Sid, grabbing his arm and yanking him in the center of the circle made by the crew.

"Let me be clear on one thing," Foligno announced, tapping the flogger gently against his thigh as he addressed the crowd. "I bought this man. I paid for him out of my own pocket, and I'm letting you scallywags use him out of the goodness of my fucking heart. So when you _break my slave,_ I get pretty fucking angry. That's fair, isn't it boys? Wouldn't you be angry if somebody broke your property? Eh?" Nick was stalking around the circle now, staring at each of them in turn. "I don't give a shit what you do to him. But what you do to him _better not_ interfere with my enjoyment of him, or we're going to have a problem. So when you dislocate his fucking jaw so he can't blow me for a month, we have a fucking problem." He stopped in front of Anderson now, tilting his head at the bound man. "Are we clear?"

"Yes," Josh whimpered. "Yes, Captain. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"I expect it won't," Nick took up a position behind Anderson. "You have three, and I want you to count them."

The first whistle-crack of the flogger sent the blood rushing to Sid's ears, and he had to prevent himself from jolting away in terror. Apparently, he still carried more scars than what was on his back from his foray on the _Capital._ "Stop," he heard himself cry out, shocking the collective group of men, who turned to stare at him. Nick had paused, also, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Mercy," Sid said, when he found his voice again, the word sounding muffled and off from his freshly-repaired jaw, but still understandable. "You don't need to do this. Not on account of me. Please."

In reality, Sid simply didn't want to hear the next two cracks of the flogger, or watch what they did to the skin of a human back. But the crowd clearly saw his plea for clemency in another light; Sid saw shocked murmuring from the pirates, the group of men that were playing cards with Josh yesterday staring at him, a spark of respect on their features.

"Duly considered," Foligno informed him. "But denied."

It was only a few moments longer, just two more snaps of the flogger, two more agonized howls, but it felt like an eternity to Sid, who clenched his fists so hard his fingernails would make half-moon indents in the skin.

"Cut him down," Nick ordered, "And boys, remember what you've seen here."

To Sid's surprise, Boone was first to the mast to cut him down. Josh stumbled to the deck, kneeling, panting out ragged breaths. Even with just three flogs, his back had a few neat slices, was dripping blood to the deck already. Anderson glanced up, blanched a little when he saw Boone standing over him.

"Boone," he muttered. "I'm...I never meant...look, I'm sorry."

Boone crossed his arms over his chest, motioning for Sid to come over. "Don't apologize to me, Andy. I'm not the one you owe an apology to."

Josh met Sid's gaze for just the briefest of moments before they dropped back to the deck. "Sorry. And, uh...thanks. For, um. You know, the...mercy thing. I won't...it won't happen again."

"Don't mention it," Sid told him, and he meant it. He really never wanted to think of this day again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, we were THISCLOSE to having a Boone/Sid fight during last night's Jackets/Pens game. Unfortunately, Seth Jones managed to grab Sid in the scuffle and they paired off.
> 
> So let's all just remember [this](https://twitter.com/EngellandsEye/status/849432880833069056/video/1) magical moment instead.

Of all the injuries Sid had ever suffered as a slave, he figured that his dislocated jaw was one of the few that actually benefited him, in the long run.

Foligno's flogging - and Sid's reaction, sticking his neck out for a man that had just abused him - had made an impression on the crew. For most men, the treatment that crossed the line into dangerous stopped immediately. The taunting was still there, the mocking insults and reminders of his past station and how far he'd fallen, the demands for submission and begging and groveling, a few slaps and pushes. A few men had even offered small bits of kindness, being a little gentler, or at least more neutral towards Sid, since the display on deck.

But there were still a few men that offered pain; since the flogging they'd simply become more judicious and careful with where they targeted. Twisting his nipples, burning him with a cigar, punching him in the stomach. He wasn't completely out of danger with this crew, but he figured his odds of survival had gone up significantly since Anderson's slip up and Foligno's intervention.

The night before they'd finally shoved off from the island, Boone had disappeared most of the evening and returned with gifts. Most of them were geared towards making Sid's life and work a little easier, which he was grateful for. Boone had picked up coconut oil to be used as lube - the brothel had sent along one, small jar, which he knew was going to run out quickly, so it was a practical gift - along with cocaine drops for jaw pain and a tincture of cannabis for fatigue relief. There was also a leather bound notebook and a beautiful quill pen with a huge, colorful feather, and an inkwell with a cap.

That last gift had nearly choked him up while Boone held him and gently teased him about it. Sid liked to roll the pen between his fingers, press his fingertips to the paper, pretend for just an instant as he closed his eyes that everything was normal, his life being lived by his own rules. Boone had taken to writing him little notes with a pencil (he was awful at trying to use the quill, as it required a more sophisticated, gentler touch) and hiding them in Sid's trousers, which had been newly replaced on the _Blue Jacket_ and had pockets. Every time Sid had a rough encounter, he'd find his discarded pantaloons on the floor, pat down the pockets, and snatch the note to read it. _No matter what happen you're mine and I love you forever._

Tonight, four weeks after they'd set sail, the note said, _Meet me down at the cannons when your done!_

Sid wondered if they needed to go over the differences between 'your' and 'you're', _again._

It had been a quick, painless evening, as most men were celebrating their recent victory. The _Blue Jacket_ had intercepted a merchant ship who, like them, was sneaking out of the Caribbean. They had a fat payload of sugars and spices and fruits and rum. Not a lot that was going to be sell-able, by the time the pirates got to a port where anything could be offloaded, but it would make their journey across the Atlantic much tastier, at least.

As a result, tonight, most of the men were more interested in drinking with their buddies and pouring over the latest booty than sex. One of the younger men, Pierre-Luc Dubois, had bumped into Sid in the hallway where he'd been cleaning the windows, dragged him into the small room that they used for medical emergencies, and drunkenly made out with him until Sid's freshly healed jaw ached, then begged to fuck him. Sid agreed - not that he really had a choice - and Dubois grinned, laid down on the floor to take his pants off as he was too hammered to do it standing up, and simply passed out before he'd undressed.

That was Sid's cue to sneak down to the cannons, he figured.

The deck was nearly deserted, being late and with most men partying in the crew quarters, so Sid passed unseen down the stairs to the gun deck, steps slowing as he descended. It was dark; lanterns weren't encouraged down here with all the gunpowder. "Boone?" he called out, softly, squinting in the dim light of the moon as it shined in through the openings that held the cannons.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as arms wrapped around his waist from behind, whispering, "Boo!" Boone laughed loudly and uproariously at Sid's reaction, squeezing him tighter as he tried to squirm away from the pirate.

"You're an asshole," Sid growled, trying to wiggle out of Boone's hug.

Boone laughed, kissing the nape of his neck. "You love me."

"Like hell, not right now I don't. Did you ask me down here just to scare me?"

"Naw. Come see what I got." Boone tugged him over to one of the windows. The cannon that belonged there was pulled out and off to the side, a victim of the recent fight with the merchant vessel. Filtering in was dim moonlight, and Boone bent down to grab something hidden in shadows. He lifted it up to the window; it was some sort of wide-mouthed decanter with liquid and floating, red orbs.

"What...?"

"Rum-soaked cherries. Really good rum, too. C'mon."

"Oh, you had to sample it before I got here, didn't you." Sid smirked, joining Boone as he sat on the floor, feet dangling out the open window. From here, he could see the ship slicing through the ocean, foam bubbling and boiling in a wake behind them. The moon was dim enough that the stars were brilliant and lit, but Boone's grinning face was visible in the light. He fished out a cherry from the decanter and held it up.

"How's your jaw feel?"

"It's been four weeks now. Werenski told me today it looks fine." Sid obligingly opened his mouth, letting Boone feed him the cherry. He snorted, almost choked on the strong rum taste, cut tart with the fruit, and spit the seed out the opening.

Boone was chewing his own cherry, slowly, thoughtfully. "Looks fine like...?"

Sid leaned close, voice dropping low even though there was nobody around to overhear. "Looks fine like I can't wait to have you in my mouth again, and that's gonna happen _tonight."_

Now it was Boone's turn to choke, and he made a small, delighted noise as he sipped the rum and handed it over. "Was hoping you'd say that."

"So why down here, mmm?" Sid took a long draw of the rum and handed it back. Boone was right; it was a quality distill, smooth and rich.

"Had to hide this rum from the boys. They're on a tear, and half the stock from that merchant ship is gonna be gone by morning, if they have any say in it." Boone growled, leaning into Sid's shoulder. "Had to hide _you_ from the boys, too. Besides, I like it down here. Before you...this was my favorite place. The cannonballs, the smell of powder, the art of the perfect shot. Watching the other gunners across from you, on that other ship, workin' just as hard as you, but you ultimately winning the day. It's where I always felt most at home."

"And where do you feel at home now?"

Boone gave him an impish grin, barely visible in the dim light. "Well, wherever you are, of course." He fished out another cherry for both of them.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Sid chuckled, eating the fruit and playfully spitting the cherry pit in Boone's direction.

"Everywhere, you say?" Boone tugged on Sid's trousers, sliding a thumb against his bare skin, and Sid suddenly felt a little light headed from the rush of desire, capped off with the rum working its way through him.

"Set that rum aside and find out."

Boone pushed the decanter into the shadows and dragged Sid onto his lap, letting himself tip backwards to the floor as they kissed. "We're - gonna be - filthy," Sid murmured between kisses, already feeling the powder-caked floor rough against his bare arms.

"Mmmhmm," Boone acknowledged, sounding like he didn't have a care in the world except to continue kissing Sid. He splayed his hands on Sid's hips, pushing down; Sid's trousers went with his hands, until they were half off, the upper part of his ass peeking out obscenely. The air, chilly from the evening and the speed the ship was moving, hit Sid's now-bared skin and he shivered a little, breaking off from the kiss.

"It's been a month since anyone's been in my mouth," he murmured against Boone's lips, grinding his hips down. "I had to have you be the first. Remind me who I _really_ belong to."

"Me," Boone growled, nipping Sid's lower lip, drawing a ragged whine.

"You," Sid agreed. "Stand up. You're the only man I want to kneel in front of." He rolled off Boone, allowing him to stand, where he stumbled against the cannon, his lower half outlined dimly in moonlight. Sid couldn't see Boone's face anymore, hidden in the darkness, but could see his chest heaving, see the bulge in his pants expressing interest in the situation.

"I never thought I'd miss sucking dick," Sid mused as he fumbled at Boone's belt in the low light. "Well, I guess that's not true, entirely. I missed sucking _your_ dick."

The words had the desired effect. Boone smacked away Sid's hands, still clumsily working at the belt, so he could do it himself, popping it undone in one quick yank. Boone shoved down his pants, puddling at the top of his boots. Over the rush of the water, the rush of the blood in his ears, Sid could hear a soft, breathy _please, Sid_ from above.

Sid usually loved to look up, neck contorted uncomfortably, to watch Boone's face while he slid his cock into his mouth. Tonight, everything above his chest was in shadows, but Sid could still see the hitch in his breath at the first sensation of warm, wet heat, could hear his growls of encouragement, the actual words lost out the window. Sid's jaw clicked a little, the familiar dull ache as his mouth stretched out to accommodate, but no pain.

Boone played with his hair while he sucked, and Sid worked his tongue along the underside, the spot he knew drove Boone crazy, was rewarded with a curse, loud and clear even above the sea churning right outside the window. " _Fuck,_ Sid. You missed this, huh?"

"Missed _you,_ " Sid clarified, trailing sloppy kisses down the shaft. "Just you. I want you to come in my mouth, want to taste - "

"No."

Sid's tongue stopped, hovering along the base. "No?"

"Uh-uh." Boone's face suddenly became visible again as he bent down to reach for Sid. He was flushed, had the wild look in his eyes he got when he was worked up. "No, not today." Boone yanked Sid to standing, fitting his jaw next to Sid's ear to whisper the next part. "I want to bend you over this cannon and fuck you until that newly healed jaw of yours hurts from begging and screaming my name."

"Oh," Sid huffed quietly.

"Can I?" Boone brushed his fingers down Sid's spine, underneath his pants which had hitched back up while Sid was blowing him. He used one hand to cup Sid's cheek, pulling it back so his other hand could press his fingers between, trailing from sacral dimple down to his balls. Boone's fingers came away slick from unused lube where Sid had already prepped in anticipation of any evening activities with the crew, activities that hadn't come to pass. "Please?"

"Well," Sid fought to keep his voice low and even-keeled, "It would be a shame to let this lube go to waste, eh?"

"A terrible shame," Boone agreed, sucking Sid's earlobe between his teeth. He slid his hands back between Sid's thighs with a slick, wet sound, easily pressing one finger inside up to the knuckle. The sudden, smooth motion of something inside him made Sid gasp, pressing closer to Boone and pawing down his pants so he could touch himself.

"Play with yourself, but don't even think about coming yet," Boone warned, mouth still next to his ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin just behind the lobe as he thrust and curled his finger inside. "Not until I make you mine." Boone's cock rested thick against Sid's bare stomach, his shirt ridden up, leaving little wet marks across the skin; Sid grabbed ahold of them both with one hand and jerked, fist tight, causing both men to groan.

Boone hissed something which might have been Sid's name but was mostly strangled, indecipherable need. "Tell me you're ready," he hissed, adding a second finger, which slipped in just as easily as the first. 

Sid could only nod, cheek scratchy against Boone's beard as he did so. Withdrawing his fingers, Boone made a pleased noise and reversed their positions, so Sid was up against the cannon, face-first. His lower half pressed against the cannon's wooden holder, his chest draping over the steel, cold even through the light shirt he was still wearing. There was a noise behind him; he glanced back, saw Boone fighting with his pants, stuck on his boots.

Sid gave an exaggerated sigh, wiggly with desire. "Any time now..."

"Oh, shut up, you." Boone had finally wrestled his pants to the floor, was back in a moment, flush up against Sid's back. "I know you're so fucking eager for it. Can't wait ten seconds."

"I don't want to wait."

"So fucking eager," Boone said again, one hand on Sid's back and keeping him tight against the cannon, using the other to line himself up and press forward, slow, but unrelenting. When Sid thought he was fully seated, Boone ground forward again with a snap of his hips, until he was satisfied that he couldn't be deeper. He draped his body over Sid's again, wrapping his hands around his sides, under his shirt, broad palms splayed to touch as much of Sid's skin as he could.

To Sid, it felt like Boone was everywhere, surrounding him, engulfing him, and he allowed himself to slump boneless and pleased against the metal. "Please, Boone, move."

"What was that?" It was a terrible time to tease, as far as Sid was concerned, but he knew it was retribution from his earlier mocking. Boone swiveled his hips, grinding without really thrusting, tone playful and a little strained in keeping control. "You want what?"

"Fuck me."

Boone's hips twitched a little, involuntarily. "Louder."

Sid bared his teeth, staring at the other man over his shoulder in the dim moonlight. "Fuck you, _fuck me."_

Boone sighed, pleased, pulling his hips back and working them forward again in large, deep thrusts. He nudged the shirt aside and bit Sid's shoulder, right above the ugly mark made by Foligno a few days ago, like he was trying to overwrite it. Sid hissed, the bite a little painful, but not complaining; he welcomed those marks from Boone, and rocked his hips back to meet him. The steel of the cannon offered no purchase to hang on to while Boone fucked him, and he scrabbled against the metal ineffectually. Instead, Boone's sharp hipbones kept propelling him into the cannon as he thrust, over and over, until Sid was sure that he was going to be bruised all to hell.

Sid could smell gunpowder, the sharp tang of metal, the sea outside the window, but above all the overpowering scent of Boone and sex, and he moaned from it. Boone pulled back a little so he could work his hand down to Sid's belly, taking him in a loose fist. "You're so fucking _good,"_ Boone praised, starting to stroke, his thrusts getting jerky and off-beat for a moment before finding his rhythm again. "Want you to come first, God, those noises you make, you squeezing around me - please, Sid."

"Faster," Sid whispered, and he wasn't sure whether he meant Boone's hand or his thrusts, but the other man sped them both up obligingly, and Sid was getting close. He tipped his head to the side - there was a large hickey there on his neck, and he could tell exactly when Boone's eyes adjusted enough in the dark room that he could spot it. He growled at the sight, like he'd been personally challenged, immediately attaching his mouth to the spot. Sid arched back, he was so close - 

"Please," Boone whispered against his skin, and Sid's breath hitched out of him in a plaintive whimper as he came, flecking against the cannon and dripping down Boone's fingers. Boone didn't stop his thrusts, fucked him sloppy through his orgasm and following soon after, hips stuttering and throwing Sid against the cannon again, damp now with come and sweat.

"We just defiled your cannon," Sid laughed, weakly, while Boone trailed wet kisses down his neck and the top of his spine.

"Well, one of them. There's a whole bunch more to go, isn't there?" Boone pressed one last kiss before he softened up enough to slip out, and there was a rush of cool air between them when he stepped back. He waited until Sid turned around again to face him, made sure he was visible in the moonlight, before raising his hand to his mouth and deliberately licking Sid's come off his fingers in long swipes of his tongue.

Despite the fresh orgasm, there was a sharp pang of desire in Sid's gut at the sight. "You didn't let me have that tonight." Sid tried to sound scolding as he grabbed for his fallen pants, readjusting them up.

"I know, I know. Maybe...tomorrow morning?"

"Oh, you think I'm going to wake you up with a blowjob? You think you _deserve_ that, huh?"

Boone matched Sid's playful grin. "Maybe not, but we do have a whole bunch more rum here, and I know how you get when you're drunk."

Sid laughed as Boone collected his own clothes, re-dressing. They both looked rumpled and freshly-fucked; probably better to stay down here on the gun deck, at least for a little while longer. Boone found the decanter again, held out another cherry, eyebrows raised with a questioning grin.

"Oh, fine," Sid said, fondly, opening his mouth to accept as they settled in front of the window again, cuddling into each other's arms. Sid had never really liked being dirty. But here they were, the gun deck was filthy, Sid was covered in gunpowder and lube and sweat and come, but he had the sea out the window and Boone in his arms and he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have our first POV chapter that isn't Sid or Boone. Ryan Murray is a Blue Jacket, Boone's real life roommate and best friend. You can see him [here.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/2a85302df59d3ed0c5a9d9720d2535e8/tumblr_n6nf2qXucm1tdao9jo1_500.jpg)
> 
> And, in the Christmas spirit, [here's a bonus picture.](https://68.media.tumblr.com/d4bb793cca1d1ed533138f33ceecb5dc/tumblr_p0uyjpjjds1w1rbzho1_1280.png) Left to right: Boone Jenner, Seth Jones (behind them), Ryan Murray (basically in Boone's lap because that's a thing), Josh Anderson, Alex Wennberg. Scott Harrington is kneeling, but he doesn't make a named appearance in this fic.

Two months into their journey, the _Blue Jacket_ seemed to have stumbled upon one of the shipping lanes for the Canadian-American war, and although Foligno and most of the crew seemed delighted, Ryan Murray couldn't help but be nervous.

It was true that there were loaded merchant ships crossing the ocean, packed full of money and coins and coffers, payment for the war. Not to mention food, rations, clothes, and medicine.

But there were also weapons. Weapons which those merchant ships hadn't been afraid to use against the _Blue Jacket._ Not to mention the fact that there was the occasional escort of a Canadian ship, and they had to flee for their lives. Regardless of having the _Capital_ close by for backup, there had been a number of close calls. Foligno and Ovechkin apparently felt like the shipping lane was too rich to leave, so they'd decided to circle these waters until they felt the risks outweighed the reward, then continue on to their destination. 

In Ryan's mind, the risks were already too great. Then again, Ryan Murray was never really cut out to be a pirate, despite the situation he found himself in. He'd grown up wealthy, a merchant's son, until that merchant had been captured by the _Blue Jacket._ His father had always been a negotiator. Ryan had knowledge of merchant routes, spoke multiple languages, was an expert navigator. And that's how he found himself in the services of pirates, while his father sailed away safely with a certain amount of merchandise he might not otherwise have been allowed to keep.

But it could have been worse, he noted, as he sat in the corner of the crew's quarters, half-drunk on a bottle of rum. He hadn't been treated poorly...not by Captain Foligno, at any rate. He'd spent his early days on the ship drawing full routes of every merchant he knew and correcting navigational maps before being assigned below to the cannons and guns. He wasn't exactly best friends with most of these men, who found him too soft, too coddled for this life, but at least he was a regular member of the crew, had the freedom of shore leave, had a democratic vote in everything they decided upon. No, it definitely could have been worse.

After all, he could be Sidney Crosby.

Ryan idly sipped his rum, eyes stuck on the man. Sid was on his knees, cleaning and polishing Jack Johnson's boots. They were splattered with blood, Ryan noted, from the last battle with the previous merchant ship, just two days before. That ship had fought back, caused some damage to the _Blue Jacket,_ enough that the crew was really only getting a chance to celebrate now, having spent the last few days tending to injuries and fixing the ship. Tonight had been raucous, the crew quarters a loud party. The jamboree had spilled onto deck, too, a bit of a tamer party up top with a smaller group of men. Boone was up there, Ryan knew; he didn't want to see his boy on his knees in front of his friends. Ryan couldn't say he blamed him.

He knew he should probably move up on deck soon. Up there, they'd be laughing, chatting, probably playing lantern-loo or singing. Down here there was a spirited game of dominoes and another one of dice, and Ryan could sense the atmosphere about to turn rowdy as men got drunker and drunker. That was usually his cue to leave, but he couldn't seem to stop staring at Sid.

Ryan was probably the only man on board, he knew, that had not yet taken advantage of their new whore. Other men had seemed content to simply fuck him here in the crew quarters - there had been more than once that Ryan had woken up to the sound of whimpers, had to turn away from the scene happening in front of him. To Ryan, the idea of sex in front of everyone turned his stomach. Luckily, Calvert had mentioned off-hand that more and more men were dragging Sid down to the currently-unused brig, to the point that it was starting to become the ship's de facto sex room. The brig was private. Maybe Ryan could do that.

That wasn't the only reason. Ryan would _definitely_ never admit this, but he'd always kind of had a crush on Boone. He worked closely with Jenner, as a cannoneer to Boone's master gunner, spending nearly every day with the man, working long and dangerous hours in battle. And to have sex with someone Boone was in love with, well, that was incredibly weird. Ryan had been hurt, at first: _in love with a whore? Over me?_ But he had to remind himself that it was his own fault, he'd never even made any advances towards Boone, so how could he have known? And now it was too late. As long as Boone was happy, though, Ryan supposed it all turned out well in the end.

But Sid was fascinating. An ex-Navy captain, and he had to hate every moment of this servitude, but he was on the floor, not an ounce of self-pity on his features. He looked, actually, like he was doing the most important job in the world, tongue half out of his mouth as he concentrated on scrubbing the red off Jack's boots. He dipped the rag into the bucket and started to clean again, but Jack yanked his boot away.

"That's good enough," he said. "Now that you're done polishing my boots, you can polish something else." Jack patted his lap amidst wolf-whistles and cheers.

 _Shit._ Now Ryan couldn't leave, not immediately at least. If he left now, he'd be made fun of for being uncomfortable at this sight. He wanted to call no more attention to himself than necessary.

Again, Ryan noted, there was no sneer of distaste or any sorrowful look from Sid, just a matter-of-fact neutrality as he set aside the bucket and rag and worked on undoing Jack's pants. Jack was half-hard, and he smacked Sid in the face a few times with it. "You want it? Huh?"

Sid nodded.

"Aw, you can do better than that. Beg for it. C'mon, beg for me, _Captain."_

"Please," and now Ryan could barely hear Sid, voice low. "Please, let me suck your dick."

Ryan deliberately did not look while Jack was getting his blowjob, finding the dominoes game suddenly very interesting, sipping the rum faster, nervously. Just as Jack was finishing - _loudly_ , Ryan noted with a small grimace - the door opened and Dubinsky stalked into the room. He was drunk, and he snorted with laughter at the sight of Jack and Sid.

"JJ, you sound like a fuckin' beached whale while you're coming," he laughed as Jack finished, pushing Sid aside.

"Like you don't?"

"Not like that!" Dubi tipped back his head and howled in an over-the-top, obnoxious mocking of the noises Jack was just making, and the room laughed. Ryan tried shrinking back a little more in the corner. He'd never gotten along with Brandon.

But Brandon wasn't paying attention to Ryan tonight. His gaze sharpened on Sid, still on the floor, and he grinned, moving away from the door and over towards the wall, popping down on one of the hammocks. "At least you've got Crosby down there where he belongs. On his knees. Come over to me, Crosby. Crawl." Sid started to do so, but Brandon snapped, "Don't fucking look me in the face unless I say you can! Eyes on the floor," and as Sid lowered his eyes to obey, now Ryan saw his body language change, from the neutral acceptance to something he recognized well.

Fear. Frustration. A barely-contained anger that could not be acted upon.

Yes, Ryan knew those emotions well.

Sid crawled to Brandon, keeping his head down, staring at the floor. "God, you're a piece of shit," Brandon hissed. "But I have something for you. See this? You can lift your eyes now, fuckface. Do you know what it is?" Dubinsky had produced a long, thick tuber-like thing from his pocket. Ryan recognized it as ginger.

Sid, from his knees, frowned and shook his head. "No."

"Ginger, asshole. The most recent merchant ship had a load of it. I took a few." Brandon yanked out his dagger from his boot, and Sid narrowed his eyes for a moment before offering a smug look and tipping his head back, as if daring Dubinsky to slit his throat.

Dubinsky smirked, started peeling the ginger instead. "Oh, please, like I'd risk Nick killing me just to cut your sorry neck. Anyway, the ginger. Growing up, my family had horses. Any time we wanted to sell a horse, but maybe it was old, or sick, or not quite in prime shape, well, we used to do this trick. Called it _feaguing._ See, you could tell a lot about a horse from how it held its tail. Up and proud? Or down and beaten? Obviously, those horses with their tails up would fetch a much better price. So we'd take those horses that had their tails down and we'd stick ginger root up their ass. This stuff burns like you wouldn't believe up there. It was only temporary, maybe 30 minutes, but boy it got their tails right up in the fuckin' air." Brandon stopped carving for a moment, examining the root, which was looking more and more phallic-shaped by the minute. "I wonder how it'll feel to you. Get your own tail right up in the air, huh, Crosby?"

The room laughed, and Ryan saw Sid's jaw twitch in fury before smoothing his features back out to a cold, clinical blankness. He stared aggressively at Brandon, as if to express that he wasn't afraid, but Dubinsky ignored him, kept carving the ginger root with a self-satisfied smile. The room had exploded in bawdy jokes and loud laughing at Brandon's proclamation, so Ryan was able to pick himself up and slip out of the room without anybody noticing. He certainly was not going to stick around to see Crosby get treated like that.

Ryan supposed he just didn't get it. The man was responsible for sexually satisfying them - why in the world would you torture him? He felt queasy at the whole thing. Moving up on deck, the sight of Boone, watching him laugh easily with Bobrovsky, without any knowledge of what was happening to his boy downstairs, well, it wasn't helping the stomach situation. Neither was the fact that his rum bottle was nearly empty, at this point. Ryan finally stopped fighting his stomach, leaned over the side of the ship and puked.

"Hey, nobody died today, Murrs," came a playful voice next to him after his third round of puking. Boone was there, grinning, referencing the first time Ryan had seen a man killed on board and puked on sight at the blood and guts. "Why're you puking?"

"Never gonna get over that, huh," Ryan muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Too much to drink, I guess." There was another wave of queasiness at seeing Boone so close, with his genuine smile and teasing tone. He didn't deserve what the boys downstairs were doing to Sid, and by extension, to him.

"Well, come join the party when you're doing being sick. We're just starting up a new round of liar's dice." Boone ruffled his hair and then he was off.

Ryan was terrible at liar's dice, but he stuck around to watch. Even Foligno was up on deck, tonight, squaring off with Atkinson at the game, and it was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, the mood up here much more playful and civil than the cruel turn it had taken downstairs. Ryan waited, far longer than he wanted to wait, with other men dropping off and wandering downstairs to sleep, but he had to make sure that whatever Dubinsky was planning was finished. He didn't want to walk into any of it.

Finally, the rum was gone, and he was satisfied that what was downstairs had to be finished, and Ryan took his leave. He stumbled through the hall to the crew quarters, feeling far drunker than he normally got. There was someone shuffling in his direction, feet making sweeping sounds as if someone wasn't bothering to lift them up, and Ryan winced, just hoping it wasn't Brandon.

Sid rounded the corner instead and Ryan almost gasped. The spirit he'd seen earlier was gone; he looked defeated. He was walking stiffly, like his joints didn't work anymore. Sid attempted to rearrange his expression into something prouder, a little more defiant at the sight of Ryan, but his jaw still quivered.

Ryan noticed there was a streak of come along his temple, mashed into his hair, and he didn't know what possessed him to do so, but he lifted his hand to wipe it away. Sid froze, unable to help cringing away, like he expected to be hit.

"Sorry!" Ryan withdrew his hand like he'd been burned, horrified at Crosby's reaction.

Sid straightened up, realizing he wasn't about to be slapped. "No, I'm - I'm sorry. For assuming you were going to..." Sid trailed off, squinting at him. "I don't...think I've seen you yet." The implication was clear: _we haven't fucked yet._

"No, uh." Ryan was blushing, he could tell, goddamnit. "I just - it's weird, in the crew quarters, in front of everyone, right? I don't like it."

"Oh, well. I'm usually in the brig, now."

"Right, so I hear. Well, and then there's - uh, I mean, you know. _Boone."_

Sid tilted his head, looking confused. "What about Boone?"

"Well, you're... _his_ , so..."

Sid smiled, and to Ryan's eyes, it looked genuine. "You're very sweet," he said. "But I belong to the ship. This is how I get to be here, with him. I promise you he won't be angry. Especially if you don't...especially if you're _nice._ "

"Nice won't be a problem. How they treated you, back there...it was awful."

Sid shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. "Well, maybe I'll see you soon, then."

"Maybe." Ryan took stock in the way Sid was moving, the small cut on his chin, a few fresh bruises dotting his wrists. "Maybe next week."

Sid offered another smile, this one a little weaker. "Next week would be good," he told Ryan. "Goodnight then, Mr...?"

"Oh, uh, it's Ryan."

"Goodnight then, Mr. Ryan," Sid nodded, and he was gone before Ryan could correct him.


	15. Chapter 15

"Murrs, why do you look so nervous?"

Ryan Murray looked up from his dinner, a bowl of soup - fish and a few fresh vegetables, which were quickly running out from their last haul. He'd enjoy it while he could. His gaze focused in on Matt Calvert, who had asked the question and was watching Ryan curiously. "Huh?" he asked, having been focused on something else, not quite hearing the inquiry.

"I said, you look nervous. Why? Is it about that Canadian battle frigate we ran into yesterday? I mean, we got away, didn't we?"

"They chased us for damn near an hour. A cannonball came so close that I could practically read its stamp as it came by. But no, that's not it."

Calvert shrugged, digging a spoon into his own bowl. "Well, I know you want us to be on our way, and you'll get your wish, I think. Sounds like Nick is spooked, too. So," Matt leaned forward, eyes wide. "If it ain't Canada, what bug got up your ass then?"

"It's, uh..." The word _nothing_ hung on Ryan's lips, but Calvert was a bulldog, and he knew Matt wouldn't rest until he got an answer. A real one. He glanced around; the pair were sitting on the steps down to the gun deck to eat, as Ryan tried to avoid cramming into the tiny mess hall at all costs. He didn't see Boone anywhere, so he continued. "I just have a date - "

"A _date?"_

Ryan fixed Matt with an exasperated look. "Not a date-date. It's with Sid."

"A date." Matt seemed delighted that Ryan had called it that, and Murray knew he was in for a world of teasing later. "You had many _dates_ with Crosby, Murrs?"

Ryan tried not to blush. "No."

"I knew it!" Calvert exclaimed with a hoot. "It's been, like, months, and you haven't seen him at all, have you? Well, I think getting off will be good for you, Murrs. Crosby will do anything you want. If you're nice to him, he'll even do anything you want with a _smile."_ Calvert stopped then, grinning. "Wait, am I reminding Ryan fucking Murray to be nice to somebody? Is it even possible for you to be mean?"

Ryan shoveled the last of his vegetables into his mouth with a big spoonful of broth. "I'm sure not going to treat him like I saw in the crew quarters last week. With that...ginger root." He couldn't remember the term Dubinsky had used. Didn't want to remember.

"Oh, that." Matt shrugged, suddenly finding his grog very interesting. "I mean, yeah, I felt a little bad, right? But Dubi said the ginger root was just temporary. A little burning. No lasting injuries or nothin'. Oh, trust me, Crosby didn't fucking like it, that was for damn sure, but it's not like we punched him or hit him. We didn't pull an Andy. And besides, I'm _always_ nice when it's just the two of us."

Ryan resisted the urge to roll his eyes, wolfing down the rest of his soup. It wasn't worth it to continue the argument or try and convince Calvert that to mistreat Sid you had to go as far as dislocating his jaw.

"Alright, Matty, gotta go." He chugged down the rest of his grog and stood. Ryan wanted to make sure he got down to the brig early, before the demand for Sid really picked up, as it did in evenings as the crew finished their work.

Calvert winked and poked his finger through an 'O' he made with the thumb and forefinger on his other hand. Ryan flipped him off with a smirk. It was a playful gesture; even though he wasn't feeling incredibly magnanimous towards Calvert at the moment, he couldn't afford to damage the friendship.

He was surprisingly nervous, he realized, as he headed to the galley to drop off his plate and get a refill of grog before reversing directions towards the brig. Was Sid going to be recovered from what Ryan had seen? It had been a week, so he should be healed, right? What did he even want from Sid? What was he going to ask for? Was it going to be weird if they kissed, because he knew a lot of whores didn't kiss, but Ryan _really_ liked to kiss, and what if nobody else kissed Sid, and then he went back and told Boone that Ryan wanted to make out and that was _weird,_ and oh my God.

Ryan was standing at the top of the steps down to the brig now. He tilted his head to listen, for any telltale signs that Sid was with someone else, but none were forthcoming, so he descended the stairs slowly.

At the bottom, Sid was sitting by the water bucket, his back turned to Murray. Ryan took a deep breath, trying to shake away the needling, nervous thoughts that were racing through his brain. "Hey," he said, was mortified when it came out soft and shy. "Hey," he tried again, a little more normal.

"Oh, Mr. Ryan. Hi." Sid glanced over his shoulder, and Ryan couldn't help the gasp. Sid was holding a wet cloth, blood-streaked from a gash above his eye. The eye itself was puffy, purple and nearly swollen closed. "I'm sorry. We keep meeting under less than ideal circumstances. Just give me a minute to get this cut closed, and we can do whatever you want."

"Dubinsky," Ryan growled, before he could stop himself. But Sid just snorted a laugh.

"Oh, no, this wasn't him. Dubinsky is the kind of guy that...when we're alone, he's fine. I mean, not nice, but _fine._ Doesn't hurt me, just gets it done and gets out. It's only when he's in front of his boys and feels he needs to swing his dick around, prove that he's a big man, that he's an asshole. Being drunk doesn't help, either." Sid pulled away the cloth, squinting at it. "I think it's about done bleeding. What can I do for you?"

Ryan made a strangled, disbelieving noise that Sid was still talking like the immediate future held sex and not medical attention. "Do for me? You can get your face looked at! Okay, so it's not Dubinsky, fine. But someone definitely did a number on you. Who was it?"

Sid shook his head, the cloth back on his face as a small trickle of blood started back up. "Mr. Ryan - "

"Oh, uh, it's just Ryan. Ryan Murray."

"Ryan Murray." Sid said the name like he was trying it out in his mouth, then shook his head again. "Ryan, It's fine. Really, this is unusual. I know you keep bumping into me in the aftermath of...some rough behavior. But 90% of the time your boys are fine. And every day here is better than that brothel they pulled me out of. That I promise you."

Ryan snorted, bending down to pull Sid's hands away, take the cloth himself. "If 90% of the time it's fine, that means 10% of the time they're doing _this_ to you, and that's unacceptable."

"Then 99% of the time it's fine. You get the idea."

"Even 1% isn't acceptable, Sid. I would figure guys would learn their lesson. After Anderson, and what Foligno did to him."

Sid swallowed thickly, allowing Ryan to wash the cut a little more. "Most guys did, yes. A few, though..." Sid trailed off. "Look, what Anderson did to me...Foligno was just unhappy I couldn't use my mouth. If you'll notice, with this, I can use my mouth just fine. Don't need both eyes to fuck you. I exist for the pleasure of this crew, as your Captain is fond of saying, and they can do to me what they wish, as long as it doesn't stop me from working."

"Well, it is stopping you from working, because there's no way we're going to do this now."

Sid's good eye widened, and there was a heavy flash of gratitude there. "No?"

"Absolutely not. You need rest." Ryan was silent for a moment, thoughtful. "You said you exist for the pleasure of the crew? Fine. _My_ pleasure is to know who did this to you."

"Mm, clever, I'll give you that." Sid bit his lip, features falling into a pleading look. "If I tell you...you can't tell Boone. _Please._ He'll ask. He'll want to know. But I don't know what he'll do if he finds out. I mean, I do know, he'll try to control himself, but if he's not successful - we'll die. Foligno will kill me, and then kill him. Or the other way around, maybe."

"I promise. I don't want to see Boone in danger any more than you do." Ryan squeezed his shoulder, and Sid gave him a thin smile.

"Alright. It was Savard."

"David?"

Sid blinked. "There's more than one Savard?"

Murray tilted his head in acknowledgement: _dumb question, Ry._ "Right, David. Okay. Thank you. I won't tell Boone. But I want us to go see him now."

"What? Why - "

Ryan quickly cut him off. "I'm going to pull the you-gotta-do-what-I-say card again, Sid, sorry. You just gotta."

Sid crawled slowly to his feet, obviously concerned about where this was going. "Alright. But remember your promise."

The pair climbed the stairs out of the brig and were soon in front of Boone's room. Ryan rapped on the door. "C'mon in," called out a sleepy voice.

Boone was lounging on his bed half-asleep when the pair walked in, but all traces of sleepiness were gone as soon as he caught a look at Sid's face. _"Again?"_ he yelped, then his gaze settled onto Ryan, and he huffed, looking terribly betrayed, tone incredulous. "Murrs? This was you?"

"No!" Sid threw his hands up. "No, it wasn't Ryan. He just brought me here."

Murray gave Sid a gentle push towards Boone. "Look, I'll tell the boys you can't work tonight. Get some rest." Ryan was shocked at his own statement; _he_ was going to tell the crew they couldn't fuck Sid tonight? He'd never insisted on anything from the boys before.

Well, there was a first for everything.

Boone stepped forward, wrapping Sid up in a hug, brushing his hand down the side of his face not bruised. He looked so concerned, so achingly in love that Ryan's stomach dropped in desire of what they had. "Sid, please. Tell me who."

"You know I can't."

"This has happened before. Was it the same guy? Was it...fuck, are there _two_ people doing this to you?" Boone sounded gut-wrenched at the possibility that there were multiple men abusing Sid, but Crosby shook his head.

"Same guy. I'll just be more careful around him, okay?"

So it was just Savard, then. Ryan looked over Sid's face one more time, the gruesome injuries, carefully curated to not draw Foligno's ire. He knew Savard, and he knew it was going to get worse, maybe much worse, maybe even to the point of killing Sid. Sid couldn't do anything about his situation, and neither could Boone.

"Boone," Ryan was speaking before he could change his mind, words tumbling out of his mouth, like saying them aloud would commit him to the act. "I know who it is. I'm not going to tell you, but...I'll take care of it."

Boone looked a little skeptical at this proclamation, like he didn't believe Ryan had it in him, and Murray tried not to be sore about it. "Murrs, don't get yourself hurt over this. I mean, we really appreciate the thought, but - "

"Look, somebody has to take care of this, and it can't be you." He flicked his eyes to Sid, who looked stunned at the proclamation, staring at Ryan out of his good eye in something akin to wonder. Nobody had ever looked at Ryan like that before, and he found himself liking it. A lot. "Sid, get some rest, take care of your eye. And, uh, maybe, some other time..."

"Anything you want," Sid said. _"Anything."_

~~~~~

Two weeks later, Foligno called another ship-wide meeting on deck. Boone fidgeted as he stood in the back, one arm wrapped possessively around Sid. He couldn't remember the last time there had been good news during these ship-wide meetings. Everyone else had seemingly figured that fact out, as well, and there was a lot of nervous mumbling.

"Boys, I have some sad news for you," Nick announced, the crowd quieting. "David Savard is missing. We think he went overboard last night; he was on duty here on deck during the overnight shift, but didn't report for breakfast, and there's no trace of him on the ship."

Boone nearly choked, turning his gaze to Ryan, who was standing in the crowd a few rows in front of them, up and to the left. There was an elbow in his side, suddenly, and Sid hissed, "Stop staring."

Foligno was continuing. "I want to remind everybody that getting drunk on your overnight, on deck shifts is _not permitted_. If you're not sure you can control yourself, stick to grog and not rum. We can't exactly recruit replacements in the middle of the Atlantic, boys. We need you alive." Nick paused to sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright, dismissed. Get back to your stations. Try not to get too drunk in his honor until you're off shift, and for God's sake stay away from the rails while you are drunk."

The crowd dispersed, murmuring in shock. There were no tears, not yet; that might happen after everyone got sufficiently wasted. But plenty of sad faces. Boone turned his attention towards Sid, eyes wide.

"Was this - because of - ..."

Sid ignored the question, leaning up for a kiss. "I have to go polish Foligno's cutlass, so I'll see you later."

"Is that an - innwendo? And you didn't answer - "

"Innuendo. No, he actually did ask me to polish his sword." Sid lowered his voice, noticing that Boone was staring at Ryan again, so he dragged Jenner's chin - and gaze - back to his. "This Savard thing is news to me, too, but maybe you'd want to ask your buddy Ryan about it. _In private."_

Boone nodded, mutely, and Sid let go of his chin after another kiss, heading off towards Nick.

He found Ryan down with the cannons, standing next to Calvert, inspecting one of the cannon rigs. "Hey, Murrs, c'mere," he said, grabbing Ryan and pulling him towards the powder room, ignoring Matt's curious look. Boone knew he should wait, but he couldn't. If he didn't talk to Ryan, now, he was never going to be able to concentrate on anything, and that would be even more suspicious.

He yanked the two of them inside the small room and closed the door as much as it would go. It was nearly pitch black; no lanterns allowed inside, and there were no windows to let in light. "Savard," he whispered, urgently, knowing they didn't have much time until Calvert started investigating. "Pretty rare that someone just goes overboard, Ryan. Especially Savard. He didn't even drink that much."

"I don't know what you're suggesting," Ryan murmured back. "If you're thinking that was deliberate, well, who's the suspect? I mean, it couldn't have been you, you were with us in the crew quarters having a drink. Everyone saw you. And it couldn't have been Sid. I know he was entertaining the captain last night."

Boone narrowed his eyes suspiciously, even though it was dark enough that Ryan couldn't see the look. "You're the one who insisted I come for a drink down there. _Insisted._ Wouldn't let it go. And then you - ...I don't remember seeing you for awhile..."

"I'm a quiet guy, you know that. Easy to overlook. Look, Boone." He leaned close; Boone could feel his breath. "Accidents happen. Sometimes they happen for a reason. Okay?"

"I don't know what to say." He grabbed forward, finding Ryan's figure in the dark, hugging him tightly. "We can never repay you. I love you, Murrs, you know that?"

"I, uh...ditto, Bam Bam." Ryan sounded a little awkward, to Boone's ears, so he let the man go. He grabbed for one of the powder bags lining the room, opening it up and dumping it over Ryan's head, laughing loudly and obnoxiously at his surprised yelp.

"Gotta throw off Matty," Boone whispered before laughing again, before bouncing out of the powder room and presenting a sooty Ryan to Calvert. "Lookit, Matty, I got him _good!"_


	16. Chapter 16

Ryan yawned, jaw cracking with the force of it, half-listening to Boone and Calvert's animated discussion about the best kind of booze as he rested against the wall of the gun deck. The big secret that nobody told you about pirate life was that it was _boring_ , Ryan mused. For the cannoneers, it was long stretches of boredom and doing absolutely nothing, then thirty or so minutes of desperate, filthy, sweaty battle. One minute you're half-asleep against the wall and the next you're swabbing cannons as fast as you can possibly go.

Ryan opened one eye and glanced out the window. Nothing but clear seas and the sun lowering in the sky. Another day of boredom, but that was preferable to bumping into a Canadian warship and running for their lives. The _Blue Jacket_ 's cannons couldn't do shit against a ship whose own cannonballs fucking _exploded_ at twice the range they had.

Ryan yawned again.

Boone paused from debating applejack versus ciders. "Hey, Murrs. Why don't you take off a little early? Ain't nothin' gonna happen today, it's almost dark and we've sailed out of the shipping lanes. Wouldn't surprise me if we didn't see another ship til we get to our destination. Also, after you eat dinner, uh. Just...uh." Ryan squinted; Boone sounded unusually awkward as he stammered, something he didn't often do. "Um, you should go back to my room. Oh, shit, not like..." Calvert elbowed Boone in the side, smirking, and Boone playfully smacked him in the head. "No, not with me! I mean Sid is waiting for you."

"...Sid?"

"Yeah, uhm." Boone sighed, turning to Calvert. "Matty, give us a sec?"

Matt shrugged, heading up on deck, bumping into Ryan teasingly on his way up the stairs. Boone waited until Calvert was out of earshot before continuing. "Look, Sid wants to - ... _we_ want to thank you for. Well, you know. And you still haven't been with Sid at all, so."

Ryan felt himself go red, and hoped that the low light of the gun deck hid his blushing. "I mean, I really shouldn't at all, Boone. He's your boy, and - "

"Ryan." Boone looked up to the ceiling, exasperated. "Don't get me wrong, I don't like his job. I'm not going to pretend that I don't wish circumstances were different. But they aren't, okay? We play the cards we're dealt, and this is the hand we got, so we're gonna make the best of it. You're on the only one on board I can be a thousand percent sure is gonna be _good_ to him, okay, Murrs? He deserves that. You deserve that. We owe you."

"I'm not the _only_ one, Boone. I mean - well, I know Matty says he's nice."

"Nice is different from good, Ry. Think about how most of these boys treat whores when they go to a brothel. They use women like...living fuck toys, you know? Like property." Boone scrunched his nose up in distaste. "Like, sure, Matty probably doesn't hit Sid, or smack him around, probably makes sure he's ready to go before they fuck. But you think Matty cares about what Sid wants? His needs, his desires? You think he cares if Sid is having dry mouth or maybe his hips hurt? Fuck no he doesn't. You think Matty gets Sid _off?_ " Boone stepped up to Ryan, a little closer. "I know you were never a big fan of brothels, but I think you always treated whores a little different. Like me. Me, sure I wanted to have fun, I wanted to get off, but if that lady underneath me didn't have a good time, well, I wasn't having a good time either. So go have a good time, okay? Both of you. I mean, don't fucking talk to me about it after, but just...do it."

"But, uh - your room? Dubinsky - "

Boone made a frustrated sound at Ryan's continued questioning. "Dubi's meeting with Nick after dinner, and I know because he's been freaking out about inventory for the past few days. They're working on what rations need to look like in case we don't encounter another ship til Russia. I figure we're gonna have to stop somewhere to restock, just dunno where. That's up to them to decide. And if they get done early, I'll take Dubi for a drink. Okay? I want you in my room specifically so you don't get anyone bothering you and wanting Sid's time over you. I think I can get you til about midnight, alone. That gives you..." Boone squinted out the window at the sun. "About five hours. Seriously, Murrs, am I really trying to convince you to go and fuck my beau, here? Are you fucking making me do this? _Go_."

Ryan nodded, stammered out a thanks, and headed up the stairs, a fresh pit of nerves in his stomach.

~~~~~

The knock at the door pulled Sid out of his reading, sprawled out on the bed. The knock was soft, tentative, nervous; even if he wasn't expecting Ryan, he might have been able to guess who it was. "Come," he called, setting the book aside. There was a lengthy pause and a few muffled noises, and then the door pushed open. Ryan was balancing a tray of food and ale, and Sid jumped off the bed to help.

"Thought you might like - didn't know if you'd eaten - " Ryan huffed as Sid helped steady the tray. "Thanks."

Sid glanced down at the meal; salted beef and dried peas cooked in butter. Not a bad dinner, all in all. "Thank _you_ ," he said, leading Ryan over to the bed. "Don't really have much of a table in here, though."

Ryan shrugged, sitting gingerly at the edge of the bed. "I don't eat much in the mess hall anyway. I'm used to balancing plates on my knees."

"Ditto." They ate in a companionable silence. Sid was just about finished with his food when he picked up the mug, regarded the ale foaming inside. "It's...sort of funny, you know. Back when I was in the brothel, Boone used to bring me ale every time he visited. I guess that was his thing, even before he started seeing me. Would always buy a drink for him and his evening's partner. And here you are, bringing me ale, too."

"Oh." Ryan picked at a small chunk of twisted fat from his beef. "I suppose so. Although I never really was much into brothels, you know." He emphasized this last bit, like he was trying to convince Sid of something.

"No? Why?"

"They're always just kind of depressing. Knowing that those...slaves, they didn't want to be there, but they didn't have a choice. I always preferred my sex a little more consensual, I guess."

"So you always went for men, then." Sid tilted his head at Ryan's sudden panic-flashed expression. "You said slaves. Most of the women were there as a job, getting paid. Not us. Also..." _Also, I'm pretty sure you're in love with Boone_ , Sid almost said, but stopped himself. That would be a mood-killer for sure. He wasn't positive, but his intuition told him he was correct; Sid saw how Ryan interacted with Boone. The way Ryan looked at him, admiration and desire and sadness all packed in together. When Boone embraced Sid after seeing what Savard had done to him, Sid caught a distinct yearning stare from the younger man. Sid had had only one good eye to notice, the other swollen shut at the time, but to him, it was obvious, how desperate he was for some kind of companionship, and that he'd had Boone firmly in those fantasies of love for God knows how long.

Sid might be wrong, of course. But then again, for years, the only thing Sid had to do for any sort of stimulating activity - outside of getting fucked - was reading men's emotions, their wants and needs. He was good at it, now. Not like Boone, who remained completely oblivious to Ryan's crush, if indeed that's what it was.

"Also?" Ryan was waiting for the rest, his eyes wide.

"Oh, uh...nothing. Hey, stop giving me that stressed out look. If you don't like women, it's no big deal to me. I'm the same way. And it's not like I'm out gossiping with the crew to tell them your secret, huh?"

Ryan took a deep breath, closed his eyes, calming himself. "Yeah. You're right."

Sid took another drink, regarding Ryan with a curious gaze. He was itching to know why Ryan had stuck his neck out for him. Had he an existing grudge with Savard? Was he simply that much in love with Boone to get in his good graces? Was he secretly a crazy man, looking for any excuse to murder, underneath that meek-looking exterior?

But that could be later, he decided. Right now, he had a debt to pay. Sex would barely chip away at what he owed Ryan, but it was a start. He gently set aside his plate and mug, setting them on the floor and staying down there, on his knees. Ryan watched him with wide eyes.

"Nothing we do leaves this room, Ryan, if that's what you're worried about. Let me show you how grateful I am to you," he said, setting aside Ryan's own plate, then sliding his hands up Ryan's thighs.

"Oh. I, uh - "

Sid stopped halfway to Ryan's crotch, tilting his head. "Something wrong?"

"I was hoping we could...is it weird if we kiss?"

Sid almost laughed. He liked this Ryan kid, secret serial killer or not. "Kissing, we can do." He lifted himself off the floor and folded himself onto Ryan's lap, legs flared out on each side of Ryan's hips.

Ryan didn't surge forward for the kiss right away, wasn't possessive or needy or demanding. In fact, Sid could sense Ryan's nervousness, his hesitation, but there was something else, too: longing, was really how Sid could describe it best. There was a quiet, aching loneliness surrounding him. Being a pirate usually meant you'd never get to settle down with someone, never be able to fall in love or get married. What Sid had with Boone was a rarity, but not one that anyone would likely wish upon themselves, to be in love with a whore.

So what Ryan really wanted, Sid figured, was a few hours where he could pretend like he was in love, having sex with someone that actually cared about him.

Becoming the man that the client desired had saved Sid from a world of hurt a few times, he figured, knowing when to play deferential versus a little more brash and bold. He could slip into this role, too, the eager lover. "You're so hot," he purred, trailing his fingertips down Ryan's jaw, watching the other man blush. He tilted Ryan's jaw upwards, pressed a kiss to his lips, chaste and close-mouthed until Sid hitched a breath and left his mouth open, and Ryan followed suit. Ryan tasted like alcohol, the hot burn of the ale they were drinking, and a thread of sweetness. Sid didn't quite know why, the sugar they'd raided ran out weeks ago, but it was there.

After a long moment of shyness, tongue barely poking out to meet Sid's, Ryan kissed him like he wanted to learn everything about his mouth. They kissed for what seemed like ages, pushing together and pulling apart, Ryan's arms firmly tucked around Sid's waist until they were too breathless to continue.

"This is good, your arms around me," Sid murmured in his ear, remembering back to those days when he and Boone had first started seeing each other, affecting the same lovesick tone he was guilty of too often, back then. A visceral shudder ran down Ryan's spine, Sid drawing a second involuntary jerk as he attached his mouth to the junction of Ryan's jaw and ear.

"Sid," Ryan whimpered, drawing the 'S' out in a long sigh. His hands slid from Sid's waist down to cup his ass, squeezing. "Fuck, this is nice."

Sid wasn't sure if Ryan meant his ass or the whole situation, but he ground back against Ryan's hands, making his own plaintive whimper, like he wanted more. It was less of an act than he would have thought, found himself getting more into it the longer it went on. Ryan was so earnest, not presumptuous of any sort of ownership over Sid's body or actions. It _was_ nice.

Sid dropped his hand down, touched the small strip of skin showing just above Ryan's trousers, where his shirt had ridden up. "I'd love to see what you taste like," Sid said, sliding his fingertips through the wiry trail of hair on his stomach, sending a jitter through Ryan. "Can I?" It was almost a rhetorical question; based on the dazed look on Ryan's face, Sid was pretty sure he could ask anything and the answer would be yes.

"Yes? ...please."

Offering another quick kiss, Sid slithered off his lap, back down to the floor in the kneeling position he was originally in before he was paused by Ryan's plea to kiss. This time, Ryan didn't stop him, didn't do anything but stare downwards as Sid carefully and deliberately removed his belt, then hooked his fingers into his trousers and pulled down. Ryan popped up on his hands to lift his hips up, and his pants were pulled down to the floor, pooling on his boots. Both men helped yank his boots off; there was a bit of an impatient energy, now, and finally they were off so Ryan could spread his legs. Sid settled there between them.

Ryan was already mostly hard, a change from his typical encounter. Sid encountered a lot of limp dicks on a daily basis, guys who knew they wanted sex but wanted Sid to do all the work of getting them excited and ready. It was a lot of effort, usually, enough that his mouth and throat ached afterwards, jaw clicking uncomfortably. He had a feeling that would not be a problem today, and even just curling a loose fist around the base confirmed it; Ryan's hips jerked with an intense interest.

How long had it been since this kid got off?

_Less work for me_ , Sid figured, and normally he would have dove in with gusto, sucking hard, trying to get done quick as he could. This time, he figured he'd go a little slow in keeping with the lover fantasy, ghosting his lips over the head, pressing soft, wet kisses down the shaft, between his spread fingers. Sid lavished it with slow affections, and all the while he could feel Ryan's intense gaze, from above, and squirmed a little. Not many men looked at him the way Ryan looked at him.

He didn't want to wait too long, could tell when Ryan's noises went from soft and content to something with a more ragged edge that it was time to stop teasing, take him fully into his mouth. Ryan's hand dropped down to the top of Sid's head, settling amongst the curls, and he steeled himself for the inevitable thrust, the cock hitting the back of his throat, but nothing came. Ryan neither pushed nor tried to control Sid's head; the most he was doing was rolling a lock of hair around between his fingertips.

Sid decided he'd suck deep anyway, let Ryan's cock thrust down his throat, but it was under his terms for once, and that felt nice. Ryan was getting close as he bobbed a steady rhythm, he could tell by the noises he was making, the way his hips twitched and jerked.

"Sid, I'm close," he panted, and it almost sounded like a warning, like he didn't expect Sid to swallow. He'd long gotten over the hangup, hadn't really had a choice in the matter, but Ryan gasped out another warning note and his name again before he shuddered and came, bitter in Sid's mouth.

Sid did swallow it all, and looked up for Ryan's expression. He had a sort of stunned, flushed look, but there was a smile curling the edges of his mouth. "Sorry," he panted. "Didn't mean to, uh..."

"I wanted to." Sid lifted up, flopping back on the bed, offering his flirtiest smile. "Maybe you can recharge a bit and then fuck me?"

Instead of answering, Ryan offered a shy grin, his hands falling this time to Sid's loose trousers. "May I?"

"Oh, uh, sure." The kid apparently had the fastest reload known to man, but if this is what he wanted, right now, Sid was happy to oblige. He slid out of his trousers, letting them clump on the floor with Ryan's, turned his gaze to the floor. "I have lube here, let me grab it?"

"That's okay." Ryan spit into his palm, and Sid's heart sank a little. Spit rarely did the job, always guaranteed some kind of pain. But, he owed Ryan, he reminded himself, and so he spread his legs, invitingly.

Instead of moving between his thighs, though, Ryan's hand kept going up to his groin, fisting Sid's cock in his spit-slicked hand and starting to move in slow, leisurely jerks. Now it was Sid's turn to blink dumbly at the other man; this wasn't what he expected, at all. He responded under Ryan's touch, quickly going fully hard, and Ryan rewarded him with a smile.

"I want to make sure you feel good, too," he said, and his voice was just as breathy and turned-on as when Sid was blowing him, maybe even more so. "Is this okay?"

"Oh - yes," Sid agreed, tilting his hips up into the touch. "It's good. Maybe - maybe a little faster."

Ryan sped up his hand, watching Sid intently. "Like this?"

"Uh huh," Sid chewed on his lower lip, maintaining eye contact with Ryan while he bucked and squirmed; the younger man seemed to like it, eyes darkening as he watched Sid writhe. "Keep going."

Ryan spit into his palm one more time, and Sid gave him a wave, pulling Ryan up to sit on his thighs, hover over him while he jacked Sid off. "Ryan, please," he whimpered, the begging mostly real, just a little showy for Ryan's sake. "That's good, right there, just keep...keep going..."

Ryan leaned down to kiss Sid, hand still working quick and frantic between them as he stroked, and it wasn't much longer before Sid was gasping into his mouth, shivering into his orgasm.

"Good?" Ryan smiled as his hand slowed until he was sure that Sid was done painting his stomach, then stopped.

"You're amazing," Sid praised, kissing him again, and he actually meant that. Ryan rolled off him, and Sid cleaned his stomach with his sleeve before depositing his now-soiled shirt on the floor. If there was anything Sid hated, it was the feel of come drying on his skin; he was quite aware how ironic that was.

Ryan was fingering his own shirt. "Can I take this off?"

Sid couldn't help but laugh, then, that he'd just jerked Sid off but was asking permission to take his shirt off. "Yeah. Then did you want to, uh, cuddle?" Based off Ryan's lit-up expression, it was the right question to ask.

Ryan was firmly ensconced in Sid's arms before either man spoke again. Sid broke the silence first. "I never got the chance to thank you," he said, against the soft skin of Ryan's shoulder. "For...taking care of you-know-who. This might be too forward, but I have to ask, have to know why you'd do something like that for who is essentially a stranger. Why? Did you hate him, too?"

Ryan half-sat up, looking at the door like he was needing to convince himself they were alone, before he answered. "I can't say I _liked_ him," Ryan admitted. "But I don't like most of the guys on this ship."

"No?"

"No, I...well, I'm not here voluntarily. Sort of like you, except...well, obviously, not _quite_ like you." Ryan was blushing a little, now. "But I was sold here, too. My father was a merchant. He traded me to keep some particularly rare books. Really, the worst part is, I know now that we never raid books anyway. Guys are welcome to grab them for personal use, but most don't, they're almost always left alone. So there was no need to make the trade."

Sid crinkled his nose, squeezed Ryan's shoulder in sympathy. "Sorry to hear."

"My father was an asshole anyway. Out of the frying pan, into the fire I suppose. But yes, Savard and most of the crew didn't much like the wealthy little merchant boy they found themselves sharing a ship with all of a sudden. Shortly after I came aboard, we got into a fight with a particularly feisty ship. Saw my first dead body, shot in the head, and I puked my guts out."

Sid tilted his head. So much for his theory about being a crazed killer.

"I caught endless shit about it from the boys. Savard in particular was a real asshole. Even today...and it's been some years since that happened...I'm not really close to most of the guys on the ship. They see me as soft. I guess I am. I'm friendly now with some of them, but Boone is really the only guy I'd say I'm _friends_ with. The only one I know that I can count on, any time, day or night. I work with him at the cannons. It kills him what they do to you, you know? He hides it, but...it was bad, after Savard socked you around. He was just numb and devastated after that incident. I mean, look at you." Ryan hovered his hand over Sid's face, still a little swollen, purple bruise still visible around the eye a few weeks later. "Savard would have killed you, eventually I think, and then...well, I don't want to think about what that would have done to Boone. And I wouldn't still be alive myself, I think, if it wasn't for Boone on this ship, protecting me. So call it paying back a debt."

Sid nodded. It was clear to him, now, that Ryan was in love with Boone, the way he spoke about him. He didn't feel particularly threatened; had Ryan wanted to claim Boone for himself, he would have let Savard kill him, swooped in to take his place.

"Well, it means a lot to me, too," Sid said.

Ryan settled back down, apparently assured that their conversation was indeed private. "Boone was a big part of the decision, but I did it for you, too. I know we just met, but, uh, Boone told me all about you. I asked," he explained at Sid's confused look. "I know what it feels like, to have your life ripped out from under you, be in this unending shitty situation you can't escape from. Fuck, I feel so bad for you." His hands moved from Sid's battered face to trail down his body, hitting a few scars along the way, until they finally landed on his stomach. He traced the smiley-face scar there, the one Foligno had given Sid years ago, during their duel. "It really bothers me, what you're going through. And how you got here - I mean... _Dubinsky._ " He said that name with a certain twist of disgust, and Sid perked up.

"You don't like him, either?"

Ryan locked his gaze on Sid's. "I fucking hate him. Remember how I said I caught endless shit from the boys, that they think I'm soft - "

"You got the most shit from Brandon." It was obvious to Sid, now, and he nodded.

"Still do. So, yeah."

Sid grinned, suddenly. "Well, you said you're only friends with Boone? Now you have two friends." He marveled at the statement. A _friend!_ Sid hadn't had a friend in years. Even with Boone, he'd moved fairly quickly from stranger to love-of-his-fucking-life. He'd been friendly acquaintances with a few of the fellow whores at the brothel, but that was different.

Most men didn't fuck their friends, Sid knew, but his situation was anything but normal.

Ryan seemed just as thrilled at the proclamation that they were now buddies. "Yeah? That would be...great. Friends," he said, slowly, like he was trying the word out in his mouth. "You know, when I told you I'd take care of Savard, you looked at me like I was a damn hero. Nobody's ever looked at me like that before, I've never done anything in my life worthy of that sort of look. I just want to tell you, it was pretty gratifying."

Sid leaned over, gave him a quick kiss. "Well, you _are_ a hero." He moved his mouth to Ryan's ear, kept his voice low. "And I'm going to give you more than just a look of gratitude. I'm going to give you a true hero's thank you. I'm going to hook my legs over your shoulders while you fuck me and cry out your name when I come. I want to be as good to you as you were to me. What do you think?"

Ryan almost choked. "I don't know if I can get it up again so fast." His body betrayed his words; his cock twitched in interest, laying semi-hard on his thigh.

"Maybe we can kiss for awhile and see what happens?" Sid nipped his lower lip, immediately soothing it with his tongue. Ryan surged forward a few inches to capture Sid's tongue in an open-mouthed kiss.

"I guess I can't say no to that," Ryan admitted, sounding fond, and kissed him again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very brief discussion of underage sex (with an adult) in this chapter. The age of consent in England at the time was 13 and 10 in America; one character treats this as no big deal (which he would, in historical context) and the other character has a little more modern sensibilities and is a bit horrified.

Sid was wiping down his lips, looking for his ale mug on the brig floor to get the taste of come out of his mouth, when the question came.

“So how was Murrs?”

He paused, staring dumbly upwards at Matt Calvert from where he was, kneeling between Matt’s legs, having just sucked him off. Calvert had never before said a word to him that didn’t have to do with him getting off. _Get on your knees_ , or _suck it harder,_ and sometimes _what a good boy you are_ or other condescending-type praise that rankled Sid deeply, although he never let it show.

“Murrs?” he asked, confused, sitting back on his haunches.

“Ryan Murray. I heard he finally got some yesterday,” Matt said, tucking himself back in and making a grab for his belt. “Did he fuck you, or...?”

Sid squinted, still bewildered at where that line of questioning was going. “Or?”

Calvert shrugged. “Well, if you believe the rumors, he likes to bend over. Like you. I’m not sure I believe ‘em myself, but...”

Sid held back a snarl. The casually cruel tone, like receiving made you some sort of lesser man, was obvious.

“He fucked me,” Sid told him. “He knows what he wants, too. Took charge right away.” Ryan _had_ fucked him; that last part about him taking over might not have been quite true, but Calvert didn’t need to know that.

Matt looked surprised for a moment, then grinned. “Murrs? _Ryan Murray?_ Took charge?”

Sid found his mug, took a long drink. “Yeah, seemed like a real dominant guy. Not like me at all.” Hell, if he could make Ryan sound good for his buddies, why the hell not? How would they ever find out what was true and what wasn’t? This was obviously something Matt found important.

“Well, that’s surprising, but...good. I’m glad. I knew he had it in him,” Calvert nodded, petting Sid’s head for a moment, like a puppy. “Nice to hear we have a strong crew, with real men.”

 _Oh, fuck off, Calvert._ Sid bit his tongue.

The ship shuddered then, and Matt laughed at Sid’s wide-eyed, concerned expression. “Relax. We’re just hooking onto the _Capital_ tonight. That must have been the ships grappling together. I guess Nicky is trying to decide where to stop to resupply - not a lot of pirate-friendly ports in these areas, you know. Wants to get some council from Ovechkin.” Calvert stood up, stretched. “Don’t kneel for too many of those Caps boys now, Crosby, you’re _ours.”_

The _Capital._ Ovechkin. If anything, Sid was even more concerned now than when he thought the ship might be getting attacked. Matt left without another word, whistling as he ascended the stairs. Sid heard the jaunty tune get further and further away - then silence.

He curled up on what passed for the bed, a collection of straw, and took another long, calming drink of ale. Part of him was terrified, that the _Capital_ pirates would find him, make him do god-knows-what. But Calvert’s last sentence came back to him: _you’re ours._ Pirates were possessive if anything. Maybe it was that the _Blue Jacket_ crew could treat Sid like shit, but heaven help anyone else who tried.

Foligno had left him a collection of shirts to mend, and he picked up where he left off, working the needle, foot tapping quickly and nervously at every set of footsteps that came near. It was a long, long time without anyone else coming down to the brig. He heard the occasional boisterous laughing, loud talking; it seemed the crews were getting drunk together. Sometimes that meant a slow night for Sid as the boys were too wrapped up in their games of cards and dice and drunken revelry, but sometimes it meant the opposite, that they would pass Sid around like a glass of rum, inhibitions and kindness disappeared under the influence.

_Please, God. Keep the worst away, tonight._

He paused at the footsteps on the stairs, mouth set in a grim line. It was time to determine what sort of evening this would be.

The footsteps paused just out of sight, like someone was listening for something. Then two eyes slowly peered around the wall. Sid broke into a grin at the sight. “Ryan?”

Ryan visibly relaxed, stepping down into the brig. “Sid. Didn’t know if you were with - mmfff?”

Sid had set his sewing down to jump up and interrupt Ryan with an affectionate kiss. He looked surprised when Sid pulled away. “We spent hours together yesterday and you want _more_ already?” Sid teased, going for another kiss, but was gently stopped.

“Oh, uh, no,” Ryan laughed, a touch nervous. “Just wanted to come say hello - friends, right? Half the boys are over on the _Capital,_ and Dubinsky kept threatening to drag me over there. I guess their ship whore is a woman. He kept mocking that I wouldn’t be able to get it up for her. So I thought I could come hang out with you for awhile.”

“Hide with me, you mean.”

Ryan grinned, crooked and only slightly pathetic. “Maybe.”

Sid briefly felt terrible for his counterpart, on the _Capital_ : if the _Blue Jacket_ boys had their way, it would be a very long night for her. But if they had access to the _Capital_ whore, that meant... “So. They’re, uh...trading whores, then?”

“I guess they were thinking about it, but I don’t think it’ll happen. Some of those _Capital_ boys are salivating at doing a number on you, and, well, some of our guys are pretty riled up about that.” Ryan let himself be pulled to the straw pile, pulled down into a hug. “Boone, obviously, had a fit. But some other guys, too. Andy stepped right up to one of the Cap boys and snarls, ‘that’s _our_ bitch,’ and then the discussion was pretty well done after that; you know how big he is. I know, I get the irony, too, with what he did to you a few months ago.”

“Huh.” Sid wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Not that he really enjoyed being possessively named as ‘our bitch’, but if it meant he didn’t have to do anything for the _Capital_ crew...

Well, he’d thank Josh Anderson later.

“So you’re down here reading?” Ryan snagged Sid’s book from the floor, flipped to the title page. “’The Captain’s Daughter.’ Is it any good?”

“It’s pretty good,” Sid said. “It’s Russian, actually, this is the first edition they translated into English. Figured it was fitting to read it. But I have to get this done, first.” Sid indicated the shirts, picking up the sewing again. “You can take a read if you’d like, while I’m doing it.”

Ryan squinted at the laundry. “Are those Nick’s? He has you on cabin boy duty, too?”

Sid gave a one-shoulder shrug, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Foligno owns me,” he said, simply, starting to work the needle again. “It’s not bad. But you’re right, it does remind me of being a cabin boy.”

“Well, cabin boy and sex, I guess.”

“Yeah, so, cabin boy.” Sid smirked, keeping his attention on the sewing, able to see Ryan’s startled expression out of the corner of his eye. “What, not familiar with the Navy?”

“Not like... _that_. Isn’t that illegal...?”

“In the Navy? Oh, sure. Buggery is officially against the rules. But it happened, especially after they stopped being overzealous about hanging men for it. For me, when I was a cabin boy, if I let the Captain have his way with me sometimes, I got special privileges. Fruit at breakfast, or an extra ration, some shore leave time I might not have gotten otherwise, that stuff. So why not?”

Ryan scoffed, looking incredulous. “But...cabin _boy._ You were how old...?”

Sid paused then, chewing his cheek, trying to remember. “I was a powder boy til about 13...then a cabin boy til about 16. So, 13 to 16.” There was a disgusted sound from Ryan which made Sid laugh, despite himself. “I guess you’ve never heard the saying: ‘ashore, it’s wine, women, and song; aboard, it’s rum, bum, and bacca.’ Getting drunk, fucking each other and smoking tobacco. Fine Navy traditions, you know. I never had a cabin boy myself, on our long haul pirate hunting expedition, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have tried anything. Not my style.”

“Maybe pirates don’t seem so bad,” Ryan mused dryly, flipping through the book. Sid shot him a stern look.

“I wouldn’t go that far. What I did as a cabin boy was consensual. Not like here. The Navy doesn’t keep slaves on their ship for the purpose of _fucking_ them,” he bit, and now he knew he sounded bitter, so he took a deep breath, nodded at the book. “Read some. Tell me what you think.”

Sid finished up one of the shirts while Ryan read, and was re-threading the needle when Ryan put the book down, wanting to talk about a particular passage. “This is an interesting part about Russian social classes. Do you know a lot about Pugachev’s rebellion? I read about it when I was younger, a bit.”

“No,” Sid indulged himself in scooting back, curling up against Ryan, bringing the sewing with him. “Tell me.”

After a long moment, Ryan wrapped his arm around Sid’s waist, breath hot on his neck. “Well, it was a huge revolt after Catherine II seized power...”

Sid listened with interest while Ryan told stories, as much as he knew, about serfdom and the war with the Ottoman Empire. After he was done talking, jaw tired, he went back to reading, before finding something else interesting, engaging in another discussion with Sid. It made the sewing go easier, to have someone to talk to, something to listen to, and Foligno’s mending was soon a completed pile on the floor. Without a needle in his hand, he could fully snuggle next to Ryan, listening to him talk about the book, about the opportunities to learn and understand Russian.

“I can’t believe they have you working _cannons,”_ Sid muttered, feeling sleepy with Ryan’s fingers stroking through his hair. What time was it? “You speak three languages - “

“Uh, four.”

“ - _four_ fucking languages and they have you swabbing cannons like some dumb loaf. Foligno is a real idiot, sometimes, for not seeing your potential. If you were on my ship - “

Sid sat up suddenly; there was a noise, at the top of the stairs. Both men shared an anxious glance.

“Sid?” came the call.

“Boone,” Sid breathed a long, relieved sigh. “Hey, come down.”

“Sid, it’s late. Was worried - “ Boone came ambling around the corner, stopped suddenly at the sight of Sid snuggled in Ryan’s arms. There was suddenly an elbow in his side; Ryan was attempting to extract himself out from underneath him. Sid let him go, and he pulled away, sitting practically on the other side of the bed, blushing a little.

Sid frowned at the sudden coldness but let it go, jumping up to greet Boone with a kiss. Boone returned the kiss roughly, and Sid almost choked when he realized that he was being possessive.

“Ryan and I were just _reading,”_ he told Boone, pointedly. “Neither of us wanted to run into any _Capital_ crew. Ryan likes to read, too!”

Boone scrunched his face up as Ryan showed him the title. “Oh, fuck, I tried to get through that one and it was so...boring, and there were so many big words, and...blah.” He visibly relaxed, offering Sid another kiss, gentler this time. “So you two are hanging out in a little book club, eh? Well, hell, that's nice. Better him than me, yeah? I have something better than books, though.” He pulled out a flask, offering it to the pair.

The alcohol was strong, but Sid took a nip anyway, and passed it to Ryan, who declined, still a little red-faced. “Guess where we’re going,” Boone threw himself down, right next to Ryan on the straw, dragging Sid down on the other side of him and throwing his arms around both men. “We’re stopping to dock somewhere and they just finalized the decision. Guess, guess!”

“New York? I mean, that country will accept anyone who pays the port tax, that’s a fucking hive of scum right there, even if they are part of America now,” Sid said.

“Uh-uh.”

“Iceland,” Ryan guessed, softly, and Boone clapped him on the back, eyes lighting up. Sid noted that Boone was perhaps a little drunker than he’d first thought when he came down the steps.

“Murrs, you got it! Fucking Iceland! Holy shit, boys, I can’t wait. Dry land. And apparently there’s a lava field there, like you can go up and see lava. Real lava. _Lava_ , boys!”

Laughing, Sid shook his head. “Boone, how drunk are you?”

“I swear to fucking God someone told me lava, Sid.”

“Well, you’ll have to let me know how it is.” He settled against Boone, noticed that Ryan was still pretending to not be uncomfortable with Boone’s friendly arm slung around his shoulders.

“Let you know? Obviously, you’re coming.”

“And once again, I ask, how drunk are you, because if you think Foligno is ever going to let me off this ship, you’re crazy.”

Boone frowned, like he hadn’t thought about that. “Why wouldn’t Nick let you off the ship?”

“I could escape.”

“You wouldn’t, though.”

“Foligno doesn’t know that.”

Boone grunted, and Sid recognized that look in his eyes, like he was positive he could convince Nick otherwise. He let it go; Boone could be disappointed about it later. Sid had already made his peace with it.

They relaxed on the straw bed, passing around the flask for a moment. There was a boisterous celebration moving down the hallway - Dubinsky, and Sid was pretty sure he recognized Nick Backstrom’s voice, from the _Capital._ They were drunk, singing loudly.

“I think we’re going to find one of those _Capital_ boys in our room tonight,” Boone smirked, tilting his head to listen and sing along a few bars, the lyrics about pirating, the love of treasure. He elbowed both men in the side, playfully. “You going to make me sing by myself?”

Ryan finally laughed a little, joining in for a bar or two, but Sid held up his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me, I don’t know this one. Guarantee you boys don’t sing _my_ favorite shanty.”

“What’s that?” Ryan asked.

“The Coasts of High Barbary.”

Boone apparently knew the tune, because he crinkled his nose in distaste, but it was new to Ryan. “Well, how’s it go?”

“It’s all about killing pirates. Here, the last verse.” Sid cleared his throat, sang softly:

With cutlass and gun,  
O we fought for hours three;  
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.  
The ship it was their coffin  
And their grave it was the sea.  
A sailing down all on  
The coasts of High Barbary.

There was a playful, drunken look on Boone’s face. “You can’t sing that anymore,” he insisted.

“Right,” Ryan agreed with a grin. “You’re a pirate now, too.”

Sid nearly dropped the flask, rearing back like he’d been slapped. “I am not a fucking _pirate.”_

“Uh.” Ryan blinked, his good mood suddenly blown away, replaced by concern. "But you're part of the crew - "

"I am most certainly not a part of this crew. Do I get a vote? Do I get a share of plunder? No." Sid knew he was probably being too serious for what Ryan and Boone had meant as a light-hearted topic, but the idea that he was even _close_ to being a pirate was making his blood pressure skyrocket. He tried to keep his voice calm and even, because they didn't deserve to be snapped at from his hangups, but he could feel the blood pulsing at his temples.

“Bullshit,” Boone told him. “You’ll be one of us, I know it.”

 _One of us._ Boone liked to harbor this fantasy that Foligno was going to come to his senses, realize how much Sid knew about running ships and working with logistics, then promote Sid from being the ship whore to a full-fledged pirate with duties that did not include bending over. Sid knew it would never happen, not unless Foligno died, and even then, there were no guarantees. Boone simply couldn’t reconcile that Sid would be a whore forever.

But being a pirate, in Sid’s mind, was even worse than being a whore.

Sid tried to take a calming breath; it barely helped. "Boys, I love you _despite_ the fact that you’re pirates. But not me. I am not now, nor never will be, a pirate.” Sid heard his voice straining, a bit; the idea that he would be willing to take on the mantle of 'pirate' was antithesis to everything he'd ever worked for, and something he could never abide. He'd become a pirate hunter not just because the Navy had the job open. He'd always considered it a calling from God, to keep the seas safe, deliver justice to outlaws.

“But - “

“I’d rather be a slave than a pirate, Boone.”

Boone growled in frustration, snatching back the flask to slam another drink and lifting himself off the bed. “I hate that _fucking word,_ ” he snarled. “Slave. Just fucking - don’t even say it in front of me, okay?”

Sid opened his mouth to say something, was cut off by another of Boone’s frustrated growls. “ _Don’t,_ ” he insisted. “I promised you, someday, and it’ll happen.”

“I know what you promised,” Sid said, unable to keep the grim resignation out of his voice, which just seemed to anger Boone further.

“I’ll be in our room. Don’t stay up too late,” he grumbled, and then he was gone.

Ryan looked like he wanted to be anywhere else at the moment, so Sid scooted over, playfully knocked into him. “Hey, it’s okay. Sorry about that. Boone can be - emotional. Especially when he’s drinking.”

“Well, he’s not wrong.” Ryan leaned a little into Sid. “I don’t like that word, either.”

“You think I do?”

“Well, you don’t seem to mind talking about it.”

“I’m just not afraid of confronting the truth, like Boone is. I can’t fantasize this away. He might like to, but I live this reality every single second. Truth is, I’m just sort of numb to it all. Because if I wasn’t _numb_ , I’d never stop screaming.” Sid grimaced; this was becoming a lot more intimate of a discussion than he’d anticipated. “Look, I just don’t want him doing something stupid. The current situation isn’t ideal, but it...works. So.” Sid shrugged; he’d already resigned himself to dying without ever seeing anything besides the inside of the ship ever again. As long as he had Boone with him, it was okay. “I guess I should go after him. S’late anyway. Goodnight.” He leaned down to kiss Ryan, veered from his mouth to his cheek at the last second - remembering the earlier awkwardness, when Sid kissed him - and headed towards his room with a short wave and a gentle smile.

He could only hope that by the morning, the _Capital_ had undocked. And that Ryan would stop looking at him with that _sadness_ that Sid hated so much.


	18. Chapter 18

Sid woke up to voices.

" - just can't believe it, I mean...what are the odds?"

"Oh, I fucking know. It's crazy shit, Backy."

"Has he tried anything? You know, like, uh...fighting back. Or mutiny?"

"Fuck no, we'd kill him and Boone, too. He knows it. He's a good boy."

Sid popped an eye open at that with a grunt; what the fuck was it with this crew calling him a _good boy,_ like he was some sort of pet?

"Oh, you're awake. Hi," a face suddenly filled his vision, and he jerked back with a gasp, immediately awake with the shock of adrenaline. Nicklas Backstrom stumbled backwards as well, and behind him was Brandon Dubinsky. "Whoa! It's okay!"

Sid panted, clutching his chest, trying to get his heart rate back to normal. He'd fallen backwards on an empty bed; Boone was already gone, but he remembered his words from the night before, _we might wake up with a Capital in our room._ Apparently, he'd been correct. "Sorry," Sid said, taking a few deep breaths. "You just startled me, is all. I mean, here you are, in my...in _our_ room. How interesting." He left that last statement loaded, smirking at Dubinsky, and was offered a narrow-eyed, warning glare in return.

Backstrom shrugged. "I got a little too drunk last night," he said, either deliberately or accidentally missing the silent implication between Sidney and Brandon. "Never thought I'd see you again, Crosby. How's your back?"

Sid rolled over to show Nick; he was already shirtless, so the flogging scars were in full view. Backstrom made a displeased huff. "Sorry I couldn't do more for you. At least you're not dead, although perhaps in your situation you'd rather be." He shot a frown at Dubinsky; Sid remembered Backstrom had been there, when Brandon knocked him out, his final moments as a prisoner instead of a slave. He remembered Nick's obvious disapproval back then, which shone through now, as well.

"Oh, c'mon," Brandon complained.

Sid decided not to respond to that; the answer had for sure been _yes, I'd rather be dead_ when he was in the brothel. It was mostly _no_ nowadays, but sometimes...

"It is what it is," he said, instead. "Uh. So are you here for...?"

Nick lifted an eyebrow at the open-ended question. "Sex? Are you offering because you want it, or because you feel like you have to?" At the silence, Backstrom nodded, slowly. "That's what I thought. No, thank you. I have to head out anyway. The ships are undocking sometime this morning." Sid let out an obvious sigh of relief, and Nick grimaced. "Don't be too relaxed, Crosby. I hate to be the one to bring you bad news, but...Alex knows you're over here, now. And he wants you. He wants you bad."

"Wants me how?"

Brandon and Nick shared a look. "I never assume anything with Captain Ovechkin," Backstrom said, slowly. "Just watch yourself."

~~~~~

There was a level of great relief as Sid watched the two ships, the _Capital_ and the _Blue Jacket,_ unhook from each other and drift off. Only when the _Capital_ was far enough away that Sid could no longer see facial expressions on the men above deck did he allow himself to relax. He was safe, at least for the moment.

The next few weeks passed uneventfully. Sid wondered exactly how long it had been since he'd transferred onto the ship - somewhere between three and four months, he figured. The Caribbean to Iceland voyage should have only taken three months at most, but they'd circled those shipping lanes in the temperate waters right outside the Caribbean for many weeks. Now they were clipping along at a good pace, only a few weeks out from Iceland and Boone's first taste of Sid being stuck on the ship, not allowed to go on shore.

He wasn't looking forward to it, not only for the fact that he desperately wanted to see Iceland, but Boone would be alternatively furious and sad over the situation. Boone was still completely confident that his excellent relationship with Foligno would somehow convince him otherwise. But Sid knew that Nick wasn't dumb. He had an investment, in Sid, and wouldn't easily let it go. Desertion was a real possibility, and Sid wouldn't hesitate to do so if he could convince Boone to come with him. Foligno knew this. Sid knew this. The only one who didn't want to see it was Boone.

But that was for later. For now, Sid concentrated mostly on keeping up relationships with the crew, and was generally successful. Some men were now treating him almost with a kind hand; being enthusiastically available at pleasing someone, over and over again, tended to have that effect. Sid also sometimes acted as a private sounding board. Sonny Milano fucked him, then broke down in Sid's arms crying about missing his mother (then promptly threatened to kill him if he said anything). Cam Atkinson admitted he was too tired and worn out for anything more than a blowjob one evening, and Sid offered a massage to go along with it. Every meeting since, Cam had politely inquired how Sid was doing, and if there was any sore spots he needed to stay away from.

Boone was...well, Boone, and since his angry outburst in front of Ryan, he'd gone back to his affectionate, pleased manners towards Sid, still thrilled at having him by his side, the small tiff either forgotten about or ignored. In Ryan, he'd found a friend that he could finally have long, enthusiastic discussions about history and books and philosophy, sneaking off after Sid was done with the crew and staying up long into the night talking, sometimes with Boone, and sometimes without.

He fucked Ryan, too, on occasion. They never really planned it, anymore; it was just that sometimes laying around talking led to hands underneath shirts, their mouths going from chatting about the latest topic du jour to sealing against each other in hot, wet kisses. Ryan always made sure to get him off. Sometimes he didn't even want to come himself, but Sid insisted, every time. Otherwise, it was too _intimate_. Too close to what he and Boone shared, and not enough like a whore.

It wasn't all good, but Sid found himself actually _happy,_ for long stretches of time. There were a few crew members that could sour his mood instantly, leave him stressed and bitter: any time he had to fuck Dubinsky was guaranteed to be a bad day, and sometimes Foligno as well, since he was a constant reminder that Sid was an owned man. Overall, however, it was actually going well, for the first time since he'd fallen overboard off the _Blue Jacket,_ locked in his duel with Dubinsky, so long ago. Back when he was still the captain of the _Penguin._

Two weeks out from Iceland - Sid getting more apprehensive at the looming discussion about his confinement to the ship - the _Capital_ had stumbled upon a small merchant ship, a surprise, as the pirate crews were not in any sort of shipping lane they were familiar with. The ship contained a lot of fabric and clothes, most of which they left with the merchants, but also contained a large shipment of whiskey. They looted the entire load of alcohol and graciously agreed to send some over to the _Blue Jacket_ as well.

Sid held his breath again, remained scarce as the _Capital_ came closer and closer, but his worries were unfounded. The other ship remained close only to transfer the alcohol, then quickly moved away. If they'd found one merchant ship, that could mean warships were abound in the area; if the two pirate ships were caught grappled together, they'd be at a major disadvantage. So once again, Sid was breathing a sigh of relief at the retreating sight of Ovechkin and his crew in the distance.

The party that night was intense, the men frustrated at having been stuck on the ship for months, longer than they were used to. They weren't unkind to Sid, that evening, but they kept him busy, enough that when he finally peeled away from Jack Johnson, sore and exhausted, the sky was just starting to brighten, dark night shifting to dull grey before the sun came up. He collapsed in bed next to Boone, who was already asleep, curling his body into the warm body heat he offered, the night chilly.

The sun was high and his mouth was dry next time Sid woke up, squinting with a soft groan. Jack had insisted Sid take shots with him before they fucked; he was feeling that, now, the heavy caress of hangover. He didn't drink anything but grog or ale too often anymore, certainly not multiple shots of whiskey. How many had it been? Five, six?

He let his feet hit the floor, reluctantly, not wanting to wake up, but hungry and thirsty enough that he knew he should. Midday meal would be available, soon, if his internal clock was correct. The day had warmed up from the nippy evening air the night before, but the floor was a little cool, and it felt good. As they went north, the temperature kept dropping, to Sid's pleasure. The brig was deep below deck and it got hot as hell down there, especially when they were sailing through the tropics. Sid hated those sweltering nights, constantly thirsty and covered in sweat, his own and others' as well.

He was surprised to see the blanket-covered lump on Brandon's bed, loud breathing coming from under the covers, just under a snore. It was unusual to see Dubinsky asleep at this hour, for how much shit Foligno was going to give him about it. Perhaps he'd been given the day off. Sid slowly raised off the bed. If he could just get dressed without waking Brandon - 

Stinger, from his perch, clicked and whistled at the movement. "Shush," Sid hissed, but it was too late.

"What time is it," Brandon mumbled flatly, rubbing his eyes as he shifted under the covers.

"Sorry," Sid muttered. "I don't know. Noon, maybe. Don't mind me, I'll be quiet." He didn't point out that it was his own damn parrot that woke him up, not Sid; he figured that argument would be pointless.

"Noon? Fuck, I should get up," Brandon sighed, sitting up in bed, swinging his legs to the floor. He blinked a few times, slowly, sleepily, then fixed his gaze on Sid, tilting his head with an appraising look. Sid hated that look, had seen it too many times. He felt like a piece of meat. "Hey, Crosby. C'mere."

A spike of concern shot up his chest at the request. It wasn't hard to figure out where this was going. Sid could think of only one thing worse than blowing Dubinsky: doing so with the hangover he had going. He bit back a sigh. It was true that Brandon was usually polite enough out of respect for Boone, at least when he didn't have an audience, and wasn't drunk, but Sid wouldn't be here if it weren't for Dubinsky and he could never forget that. The very fact that he had to sexually serve the man who sold him into slavery was fucking galling.

But there was nothing he could do about the indignity of the situation. He shuffled over to Brandon's bed, ignoring his huff of annoyance at how slow Sid was moving.

"Suck," Brandon indicated his crotch with a flick of his wrist, his night shirt pulled up to his chest. Sid could see he was already hard.

"Here? But - "

"There's no way I'm fuckin' moving down to the brig with _this_. Look, it's midday, right? Boone's at the cannons. So it's fine." Brandon scowled suddenly, politeness dropping the longer Sid stood there. "Why am I even explaining this? Look, aren't you supposed to do what I ask?"

Sid figured that was probably a question that could only be answered by getting on his knees, which is what he did. 

He was just a minute or two into the job when Brandon suddenly jerked his hips, hitting the back of Sid's throat, his legs trembling. At first, Sid figured he was finished, although it happened awfully quick, but he hadn't come, so he glanced upwards at Dubinsky's face.

In the bright sun filtering in from the porthole, Sid could see the color had drained from his face, and he was open-mouthed in surprise. Almost the same look he had when he first spotted Sid in that brothel. But this look had a lot more...was that fear?

And then he realized that amidst the babbling and squawks Stinger had been chirping out, background noises he'd ignored while he sucked, that the parrot had also called out his traditional greeting he did when someone entered the room. Someone else was here, and there was only one person it could be. Sid had just enough time to drop Dubinsky's cock out of his mouth before he was shoved out of the way, sliding on the wood floor as Boone lunged at Brandon, snarling. _"What the fuck?!"_

"Wait - !" Brandon protested, but then they were a blur of punches and kicks, breathing hard and grunting as they wrestled with each other. They slammed hard against the wall, making a deep _thud,_ then toppled off Brandon's bed for a fleshy _smack_ onto the floor, still fighting.

Sid could only watch in horror. "Stop, stop, _stop,"_ he yelled, but neither of them paid any attention to him. "Foligno's gonna fucking kill me," he moaned, and maybe they heard him, or maybe they were just too tired to continue, but a moment afterwards they rolled apart, and stared at each other, chests heaving with exertion. Sid could see that Brandon had a nasty shiner going, his eye already swelling, and a cut across his chin that was oozing. Boone's lip had been split wide open, was gushing blood, his teeth red when he bared them towards Dubinsky. His nose was also bleeding, mixing in with the cut on his mouth.

_There is no fucking way they're hiding this,_ Sid thought with despair. Both men looked terrible, and were going to have cuts and bruises for weeks.

"What the fuck," Boone hissed again, and Brandon threw up his hands defensively.

"You're not even supposed to _be_ here!"

"What the fuck does that mean?! This is _my room!"_

"It's mine, too," Brandon barked back. "And I know everyone's been using the brig to fuck him - " Boone grimaced at that, physically flinching, "- but the original instructions were that he was to go to a man's quarters when he was wanted. Well - I'm in my fucking quarters, Boone!"

Boone threw up his hands, exasperated.

"Yeah, you know I'm right," Brandon said. "Look, I'm fucking sorry, I never intended for you to walk in on this. Why are you even here?"

"Maybe I wanted to get my...my...my _partner_ to have lunch with him. You ever think of that?"

Sid could see Brandon's unimpressed expression at the term 'partner'. "No I never fucking thought of that, _obviously._ But I mean...this isn't like, a shock, right? His job - "

"I know his fucking job. That doesn't mean I want to see it," Boone snapped. "Especially not with you." Finally, Boone glanced over at Sid, who was still on the floor, curled into a ball, staring at both men morosely. "Are you okay?"

"As long as your captain doesn't kill me," Sid muttered in return.

"What?"

"He said before, if any shit goes down, he'll kill me. I think this qualifies as 'shit going down', don't you?"

Boone scoffed, looking back at Brandon. "I don't think - it's not really that obvious. Right? He'll never notice."

Sid was tempted to roll his eyes, but he didn't need to; Brandon was doing that for him.


	19. Chapter 19

Foligno noticed right away.

Not even two hours later, Sid had been summoned to the captain's cabin; Brandon and Boone sat there already, looking anywhere but Nick, and Foligno himself looked stormy, although his expression smoothed out to something predatory when he caught sight of Sid. "Crosby, there you are. Come over here." He patted his lap.

Sid shared a concerned look with Boone, but made his way over to Nick and hovered close. "On my lap," Nick commanded, and Sid perched there gingerly.

"Now then," Nick said, his hand going immediately between Sid's legs, which elicited a surprised squeak. "These two jokers you see in front of you aren't telling me jack shit about what happened, Crosby. I think you can do better than that, hmm? Can you tell me what happened?"

"Uhh...yes," Sid nodded, cheeks burning with embarrassment as Foligno stroked him through his pants. He told Nick everything: how he'd been blowing Brandon, and Boone had made a surprise appearance. The fight. The aftermath. Throughout it all, Nick had his hands everywhere, between his legs, trailing down his chest, pressed against his ass, causing him to occasionally stumble or stutter over a word. As he got towards the end, Nick slipped his fingers inside Sid's pants, belt-less for easy access, and pressed them to his entrance, stroking, fingertips gently catching on the rim as he did so. Sid tried his best not to squirm, and now Boone was bright red and staring at the floor, biting his lip so hard that it shined with blood, and Brandon was fidgeting uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at Sid and Nick.

"Boys, is this all true?"

"Yes - but - we're fine now, Captain," Boone insisted with a strangled tone, still staring at the floor, and Brandon nodded so hard in agreement it looked like he was going to get a headache from it.

"It shouldn't have happened in the first place," Nick retorted. "Maybe you forget, Boone, that despite how much you love him, that _I own him?_ Look at me, Boone, look at what's in front of you. Look at me!"

Boone cringed at the snarl from his captain, reluctantly lifting his eyes to the scene in front of him, Sid flushed red and splayed intimately on Nick's lap, panting from his fingers. "You don't need another reminder, do you? Because if so, feel free to stay while I fuck him. Be my guest."

"No! No...Captain. I remember. Nothing like this will ever happen again. I get it, I do, he's...he's yours." He kept his voice calm, but Sid could see the tortured, anguished look in his eyes.

"Yes he is," Nick snapped, addressing Boone and Brandon together now. "As for the both of you, from this little bullshit, you'll go through some crew bonding together and get three lashes. Tomorrow. I'll administer them myself."

Brandon and Boone shared a horrified look, with Brandon crying out in dismay. "But he started - "

"Not another fucking word, boys. Plus, you're going to need to explain to the crew how your actions caused Crosby to be unavailable, for awhile." Nick turned his attention to Sid, caught his eye. "You. For the next two weeks, you'll be staying right here in my cabin. You're _my_ slave, and for the next few weeks I don't feel much like sharing. No Boone, nobody else, just devotion to me and my needs alone. You understand?"

Sid nodded, blowing out a harsh breath; Nick's hand was still, now, curled around his ass cheek, fingertips sitting against his entrance.

"After two weeks, assuming wind stays good, we'll be docking in Iceland for some much needed R&R. And I have a favor I need to return. Captain Ovechkin sent that load of whiskey over recently, and he wants to spend an evening with you, Crosby. I figure I owe him that much."

Sid gasped, staring dumbly, panic-stricken, at Foligno, but it was Dubinsky who protested first. "Captain, _no,"_ he said, eyes wide and concerned.

"Oh, now you're possessive, Dubi? C'mon - "

"That's not it, Nick. You weren't there last time Crosby was on that ship. Look at his back. That was Ovechkin. He nearly died."

"In case your memory is failing, you're the one who accepted money from Alex so he could flog him."

Brandon flinched as Boone gripped the chair so hard it vibrated. "I - I know. It was a mistake, though, I had no idea it was going to be that bad. Look, I have a friend over on the _Capital,_ and he's convinced that Ovechkin has something terrible in store for him. Knowing Ovechkin, I'd tend to agree. Alex begged me to sell Crosby to him, and the shit he talked about doing...keelhauling, or hanging..."

Nick used his free hand to wave the air, like he was physically waving away Brandon's concerns. "I will talk to Captain Ovechkin and ensure that he understands that Crosby is our property. You wouldn't destroy or damage another man's property, would you, Dubi? Not unless you wanted a fight on your hands, and I know he doesn't. I trust Alex will understand that, but I'll make sure to talk to him before we send Crosby over, regardless. It's only one night. So I appreciate you raising the issue, but I consider the matter settled."

"It's a _mistake - "_

Sid heard Nick intake a breath, sharply, like he was shocked that Brandon was still arguing. " _Four_ lashes, then. Keep talking, Brandon, please."

Dubinsky's mouth hung open in shock, and he turned his eyes to the floor. "Fuck," he muttered, softly, under his breath, but said no more.

Boone had his mouth open now, and Nick swung his attention over, held up his hand. "Boone, don't say a fucking word. Crosby is going to fuck Ovechkin and no more and the matter is _fucking settled._ If you want to have the chance to say goodbye to your boy, you'll keep it shut."

Sid wasn't sure he'd ever seen Boone so upset. He was sucking in big hiccup-y breaths, trying his best not to cry. Nick finally pulled his hand free from Sid's pants, shoved him forward, off his lap. "Say your goodbyes. Two weeks."

Sid collapsed on top of Boone in a tight hug, the chair nearly tipping, the legs groaning in protest at two men's weight. "I'm so fucking sorry, Sid," Boone whispered into his neck. "This is my fault, this is my fucking fault, and - "

"Shh." Sid wasn't quite ready to say it was all okay, not ready to forgive until he saw what he needed to deal with on the _Capital,_ but he didn't want their last moments for weeks to be Boone babbling an apology he wasn't quite ready to accept. Instead, he went with, "I love you, Boone. Forever." That much at least was true.

"Forever," Boone agreed, sounding crushed.

"Alright. Out, now," Foligno demanded after a long moment. Boone loosened his embrace reluctantly, allowed Sid to slowly stand up again. "Back to me, Crosby." Sid stepped backwards, eyes never leaving Boone's, until he ran into Foligno and sat back down on his lap with a sigh. Boone mashed the heel of his palm to his eyes, like he was trying to hide tears, and Brandon had to practically tug him out the door. Suddenly, it was shut, and Sid felt very alone, even sitting in another man's lap.

"Don't worry, Crosby," Nick told him, hands back between his thighs. "Look, I have a special interest in keeping you standing on your own two feet, don't I? You might have been cheap for a slave, but that doesn't mean there wasn't some real cost in buying you. Last thing I want is to see you hurt. So stop looking so fucking terrified." Nick kissed the back of his neck, and Sid took a deep breath, tried to relax, tried to melt into Foligno's touch, how he knew Nick liked it.

_It is what it is, and worrying about it won't change anything. Nick sounds invested in protecting me, at least._ He tipped his head to the side, knew that's what Nick wanted, and sure enough Foligno took the invitation, biting hard at the juncture between shoulder and neck.

"Two weeks, you're all mine. I think you can figure out what I want first, Crosby."

"On my knees?" Sounding and acting _pleased_ was the hardest part about encounters with Foligno; he heard his voice, shaking, just slightly. 

Nick's mouth grazed the shell of his ear as he talked. "Mmm, no, I want to fuck you tonight. Over the desk."

"Great," he purred, and even to his ear it sounded hollow. Two weeks of pretending to be Nick's enthusiastic bed mate. And then, at the end of those two weeks...

_Fuck._

~~~~~

Sid fell into a routine fairly quickly. He'd wake up early, when most everyone was asleep, and head to the mess, the only time he was allowed to leave the cabin. Each morning, the urge to swing by his own room, to see Boone even if just for a moment, was terribly strong. But he didn't want to know what Foligno would do if he found out.

So, instead, he went straight to the kitchen, making breakfast for himself and Nick: biscuits with a steadily-dwindling supply of butter and marmalade, oatmeal with honey, and coffee. He made the coffee boiling hot, because Nick did not want to drink it straight away. He preferred other activities, first thing upon waking.

Returning to the captain's cabin with the breakfast tray, he'd set it on the desk, then slide into bed with Nick and promptly be nudged down, under the covers, to suck him off. Nick preferred a long, lazy blowjob in the morning, sometimes ending with sex, but mostly ending in Sid's mouth. Sometimes Nick took so long to come, orgasm building slowly in his half-asleep state, that Sid's jaw would click painfully afterwards as he ate his biscuit. Mostly they ate in silence, with Nick reviewing the evening's reports and maps. Sometimes, though, he wanted to chat, about issues with the ship or crew, using Sid as a sounding board on issues. A few times he even solicited an opinion, as if Sid was a peer, offering friendly advice; those mornings always made his heart squeeze, almost choked the air out of him for how bad he missed being a captain.

Nick usually let him go back to sleep, for a bit, after their morning activities. There was a temporary hammock set up in the corner of the cabin, where he slept at night. But in the morning after sex, Foligno would let him settle in his own bed, huge and luxurious, the sheets silk, the pillows of the softest down, still warm from Nick's body heat. Sid didn't like to admit how much he enjoyed it.

Nick didn't have too many early visitors, but one morning Sid woke up to snickering. He was sprawled out on Nick's bed, naked, and he cracked an eye open to see Zach Werenski, changing a bandage on Nick's arm; one of the ropes had snapped free of the mast the day before, gashing Foligno in the shoulder.

"Fucked him so hard he can't even keep his eyes open, eh, Captain?" Zach winked, and the two men laughed, like it was the funniest joke in the world. Sid mostly stopped sleeping in, after that.

Besides the sex, he worked hard at whatever Nick wanted him to do. He hated to admit it, but it was worlds better than being the crew's sexual servant. Scrubbing floors, washing windows, darning socks, writing letters - he was happy to do them, compared to his typical day with the crew. Had he been allowed to see Boone, to spend time with him, he'd be quite content with the current arrangement. As it was, he missed the hell out of Boone, had grown used to seeing him daily, drifting off to sleep next to him, waking up with strong arms curled around him and Boone tickling his ear with his snores. But they'd been apart far longer than two weeks at a time, when Sid was in the brothel. He could manage this, as well.

There was, however, a lot of time alone, or in silence, with only his thoughts to keep him company. Nick occasionally allowed business to be attended in his cabin while Sid was there, but never with Boone. He'd met with Boone only on deck, away from Sid. He had seen Ryan, once, who whispered that Boone was a real wreck, but mostly Sid was left alone, or with Nick, who was never very talkative, busy with work and duties as a captain.

He couldn't get away from his imagination, sometimes. Sid had a difficult time not thinking of the looming evening on the _Capital,_ torturing himself with a million different scenarios. This usually led to thoughts and ideas on his future in general. As a whore, he had an expiration date, he knew. At some point, the crew - and Nick - would get bored of him. Sid would get _old_. Nobody wanted to fuck an old whore. What happened then?

The way Sid saw it, there were a few likely scenarios for his future. First, and the worst case scenario, that Boone would die, leaving him alive. Perhaps a battle went wrong. Perhaps he fell terminally ill. There were certain men on board who were only restrained in their bad behaviors by their fondness for Boone; that would be gone. Foligno, too, would no longer be constrained by keeping him as a favor to Boone. The second Sid displeased Nick, or bored him, he figured that he'd be sold off. A Russian brothel? Working as a slave in the fields, growing crops or doing manual labor until he dropped? He wouldn't even be able to kill himself, for fear that he'd be denied heaven, would never see Boone ever again. The thought of Boone dying without him turned his stomach, made him sick.

Second - not great, but a better option than the first - was that Sid died, either alone, leaving Boone alive, or alongside him. Sometimes he was convinced that Ovechkin would take care of the job in just a few days. Boone would be sad, but he'd ultimately be okay, here on a ship, doing what he loved, with his friends. Sid had spent so long, praying for death in that brothel, that it still felt odd to hold on to life with a fierce protectiveness. He didn't want to die, anymore, but he could accept it.

Third, Foligno died, or perhaps retired and bequeathed Sid to the next ship captain. Best case scenario, really. As it stood, Boone or Brandon would likely be voted in as the next captain. If it was Boone, he'd be free immediately. Sid still never wanted to be a pirate, but he'd be delighted to be Captain Jenner's cabin boy. As for Dubinsky - he suspected Brandon would free him, as well, partly based on his loyalty to Boone, but partly because Boone would immediately challenge him to a duel if he did not. Sid closed his eyes, daydreaming about that scenario. He fantasized about Foligno, dead, Boone challenging Dubinsky to a duel to the death, swords drawn. Boone would win, skewering Brandon in the stomach with his cutlass, and Sid stood by as he dropped to the deck, life draining out of his eyes as Boone declared _he_ was the Captain now. The crew would cheer, and Boone would sweep Sid off his feet, ravishing him in a possessive kiss…

"Ow," Nick hissed, withdrawing his foot, and Sid snapped back to reality. He was kneeling under the desk, giving Foligno a foot and calf massage, late in the evening. He must have squeezed too hard.

"Sorry," Sid mumbled.

"You're distracted, tonight. What are you thinking about?" Nick offered his foot again, and Sid shook his head, eyes cast downward.

_Thinking about your death._ Instead, he said, "Nothing."

Foligno sighed expansively. "For an ex-Captain, you sure do worry a lot about shit you can't change. You're thinking about Ovechkin again, aren't you?"

"No, sir." That was mostly true, although now Alex was on his mind again at the mention.

"Uh huh." Nick sounded skeptical, and nudged Sid with his foot. "Stand up. Here." Nick grabbed two cups from a drawer within his desk, indicating the hot water kettle, having recently been delivered by Sedlak. "Make us both a cup of tea and fuckin' _relax."_

Tea was a rare pleasure, especially from Foligno's personal stash; he generally kept the best for himself. Sid made them both a cup, carefully, losing himself in the familiar motions. Finally, he was curled in the chair across from Nick, letting the cup warm his hands, eyes closed with the pleasure of it.

"Better?" Nick asked, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it down. Sid nodded.

"Good. I almost don't want to let you go, you know. I could get used to this," Nick grinned, and Crosby held his breath, a spike of hope which crashed down as Foligno continued, "But it's just for one night. Be as good for him as you are for me now and you'll have no problems. Now, who do you think would be our best candidates to learn Russian? We should all learn, eventually, but we'll need a few language savants to take up the mantle, first."

"Ryan," Sid said, automatically, taking a sip. "He already knows four languages."

Nick made an interested noise, scrawling notes. "How do you know that? - oh," he tilted his head at Sid's lifted eyebrow. "You two are...friends. Huh."

"...I could learn, too."

Nick laughed, at that. "You can’t study Russian with a dick in your mouth, Crosby. If you’ve got enough time to learn, then you’re neglecting your duties. Speaking of, why don't you finish your tea and come on over, huh?"

Sid nodded, trying to keep his teeth from grinding together in fury as he sipped his tea. He spent the rest of the cup thinking about Foligno dying in various terrible yet satisfying ways, paving the way for Captain Jenner and his partner, nobody dare fucking with him any longer.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we round into chapter 20, I wanted to let you readers know that this fic is basically finished (one more chapter to write), so no worries about it being a WIP that never gets completed. This is by far the most ambitious thing I've ever written, so for anyone reading, commenting, kudo'ing, etc - I truly appreciate it. THANK YOU!
> 
> As before, all grammar / spelling mistakes in Boone's letters are his and meant to be there.

"Fuck," Boone growled, chewing on his lip to stop from saying anything else. Ryan was changing the bandages on his back, washing the wounds from where he'd been flogged. It fucking _hurt,_ but he didn't want to show it. Wanted to put on a brave, strong face. He watched Dubi struggle with doing the same thing, each night in their shared room. Right now, however, Brandon was out elsewhere, and it was just Ryan. Still, he didn't want to seem weak.

"Oh, please," Ryan teased. "You've been grunting and groaning and growling so much I think I know what you sound like when you have sex. Stop being so macho about this. I know it hurts."

Boone choked, barking a shocked laugh, the pain momentarily forgotten. "Holy fuck, Murrs, I...wow. Never thought you'd say...are you fucking chirping me about this, right now?"

"Is it making you forget about the pain?"

"Well, kinda - ah!" Boone transitioned the word into a yelp as Ryan hit a particular sensitive area. "I mean, mostly. You're right, it hurts like hell, but I do appreciate it. Even though, I swear, you don't _have_ to do this - "

"Well, you can't reach your back yourself, can you? It's no problem. I _want_ to. There, the hard part's done, it's all washed out." Ryan tossed the rag back into the bucket of salt water, patting Boone's back dry with a fresh rag, then gathered up the bandages Werenski had left, started to prep them.

"How bad's it look?"

"Not bad. Foligno was careful. That fourth lash, though - "

"Yeah." It certainly hadn't been the first time Boone had been flogged; the Columbus Navy, in fact all navies that Boone knew of, utilized flogging as a preferred form of punishment. In his younger, stupider days with the military, Boone often flaunted curfew, to see how much he could get away with. Drinking in a bar with your buddies or spending the evening next to a beautiful woman was far preferable to being in his cold, tiny bunk on a Navy ship. For those offenses, however, the Navy generally offered two lashes, one on each side of your back. The _real_ pain and scarring came in when you received enough lashes that one of them cut into an already open wound. There was enough skin on Boone's back to accommodate three lashes. But the fourth lash, despite Foligno offering a gentle, merciful touch, cut into the already open wounds, sending Boone to his knees on the deck, a sob ripped from his throat. Brandon hadn't fared any better.

"Might see a little scarring, where that fourth lash cut through. Probably no bigger than the size of your middle finger, though. Nothing like what, uh..." Ryan trailed off, starting to wrap one of the bandages.

Boone knew that Ryan was actively trying to avoid mentioning Sid. He couldn't blame him; Boone had been in a terrible mood, alternating between sad and angry, ever since the door to Foligno's cabin had shut, with Sid perched morosely on Foligno's lap. He'd said a few terrible things to Ryan, things he'd already apologized for but could never apologize enough. He was, quite frankly, shocked the man was still here, still willing to help take care of him, to be his buddy. Everyone else was rightfully avoiding him, including - _especially_ \- Dubinsky.

"I can't even imagine what Sid went through, with how fucking bad that fourth lash hurt," Boone muttered. "Pretty obvious Ovechkin tried his best to keep hitting the same wounds over and over again. His back is so - " He stuttered on the word _ugly;_ no part of Sid was ugly, to Boone, but the thick tangled scars were objectively hideous, were it any other man. "Well, you know, you've seen them. And Foligno thinks it's a good idea to send Sid _back_ to the man who inflicted them? Jesus fucking Christ."

"We have to trust that Foligno is going to have that heart to heart talk with Ovechkin. Look, Nick is a scary guy when he wants to be. You think Ovechkin wants any part of that?" Ryan stepped back to admire his handiwork, the fresh bandages swathed across Boone's back. "There. You're done."

"Ovechkin is a rat." Boone leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. "I just keep thinking the worst. If he kills Sid, it wouldn't be a dignified death. Ovechkin would make him _suffer._ And then sure, maybe he faces Foligno's wrath, but it's too fucking late, Ryan, Sid would be fucking _gone._ How could I...?" There were numerous endings, to that question. _How could I cope? How could I not try to kill Ovechkin and every fucking Capital crew member? How could I live, with him dead?_

"Hey." There was a sudden, warm presence next to him; Ryan had joined him on the bed, wrapped his arm around his waist, below the flogging wounds. "I know. I'm scared for him, too."

Boone groaned, annoyed at himself, feeling fresh, hot tears threatening. _Not in front of Ryan, not in front of fucking anybody, don't be a fucking weakling._

"You don't have to be _strong_ about this," Ryan said, softly, like he read Boone's mind, and then Boone was taking one long, awful, shuddering breath and then he was crying into his hands. Ryan tugged one of his hands away, opened up his arms, and Boone hesitated, breath hitching, but finally accepted the offer. He fell into Ryan's embrace and cried silently into his shoulder, until the fabric was wet and nearly translucent in one spot. Ryan didn't try to say anything or offer any trite advice or words of encouragement, and Boone was eternally grateful for it.

He finally pulled away, wiping his face over and over again with his sleeve, a mess of tears and mucus. "I'd never forgive myself," he said, thickly, trying to keep his voice from quavering. "I knew the fucking terms and conditions when he came on board. I knew them. I accepted them. We had no other choice, but...I knew, I had to be okay with it, for him to be here, with me. And I thought I was okay. I did! Even when he came back and Foligno had chewed a fucking purple mark into his neck like Sid was his, and not mine. Even when I overheard comments about two of the guys f-fucking double t-teaming him and half the crew just...just watching and laughing, I didn't say a fucking _word,_ Ry, even though I couldn't fucking breathe with how goddamn angry I was. I just - when I saw it, him on his knees in front of Dubi, I just snapped. One dumb, thoughtless fucking decision in a split second. And if that's the thing that takes him away from me...oh, Ry, _fuck._ " He noticed, then, that he was holding onto Ryan's wrists, so tight it must hurt, and he yanked back his hands, muttering an apology.

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a long moment before Ryan finally spoke up, softly. "When Sid was at the brothel, and you missed him then, how did you cheer yourself up?"

"Oh. Well, we wrote letters to each other. Here." Boone slid off the bed, returning with a satchel that had been hanging on a hook, dumping it into Ryan's lap.

"Letters?" Ryan opened the satchel, sifted through the contents. Inside were pages and pages of letters, all varying lengths. "Wow. _You_ wrote letters."

"Hey!" Boone finally allowed his dour frown to break, his smile shaky and damp with previous tears. "That's not very nice, don't think I don't hear your shocked tone. Sid taught me how to read and write. I mean, I'm still not nearly as good as him, but good enough. I wrote about how much I missed him and everything that happened and whatever else popped into my head. And he'd, well, usually write something, but he drew a lot, too, you'll see, feel free to take a look. The brothel was pretty boring, I guess."

"So why don't you write one now? Tell me everything you told me. How you love him, you miss him, that you're sorry. I bet he'd love it. And I think it would make you feel better." Ryan unrolled a letter, one of Boone's notes to Sid, skimming the page, reading rapidly.

"Maybe. We still write little notes to each other, sometimes, but it's been awhile since I wrote more than a sentence or two. I'm rusty. Hey, Murrs, there should be a notebook and a pencil in that sack, somewhere. Can you hand me it?"

Ryan dug through, quickly finding the leather-bound tome and its pencil, handing them over. They relaxed on the bed together in companionable silence; Ryan reading through the letters, Boone trying not to chew on the pencil as he composed his letter.

After about ten minutes of that, Ryan frowned, sitting up. "Wait a sec. This poem you....wrote."

"Yeah?"

"'Til the seas go dry, Sid, and the rocks melt in the sun; I will love you always, while the sands of time shall run'." Ryan quirked an eyebrow up. "That's from a Robert Burns poem. Slightly bastardized, but unmistakably plagiarized."

"Plagia...what?"

"It means you stole it."

"Ooh." Boone put the end of the pencil in his mouth, smirking around it. "You say plagia-whatever, I say 'guarantee of the best sex ever'. Hey, what Sid didn't know, didn't hurt him, eh?"

Ryan laughed, disbelievingly. "You can't just - just _steal_ words, Boone."

"There's only so many words to use! If I just _happened_ to use them in the same configuration as somebody else - "

"Oh my God."

Boone pointed the pencil at him, suddenly. "You can't tell. Promise me." Ryan narrowed his eyes, thinking about it, and Boone shifted closer. "Don't make me do something we'll both regret," he threatened, but there was a playful tone behind it.

"Hey, I'm not the one that chose to plagiarize! That's a very serious offense, you know." Ryan grinned, pleased to see Boone smiling, a genuine moment of levity.

Boone grabbed Ryan's wrist, suddenly hovering close, pencil and paper set aside. "Don't make me," he smirked.

"Uh - " Ryan stuttered at the warm weight on his wrist, the sudden closeness of Boone. As much as Ryan wanted to indulge him, to continue this line which had momentarily distracted him from his nervous grief, there was no way he was going to be able to _wrestle_ Boone without very clearly giving away his feelings towards the man. Furthermore, he had a sudden sharp spike of guilt, that he was even thinking about sex, and Boone, while Sid remained in looming danger. "We can't. Your back - you're healing. You shouldn't - "

"Werenski didn't say nothin' about _shouldn't._ And you, sir, have insulted my honor."

_"Your_ honor? You're the one who plagiar - no!" Boone made a lunge for him, and Ryan twisted away, landing hard on the floor in his attempt to escape. Boone grabbed at nothing and ended up on his side on the bed, groaning in pain.

"Ow," he huffed, slowly pushing himself back to sitting.

"I told you," Ryan slowly picked himself up off the floor. "I warned you."

"Oh, fine. Rain check, then, on me kicking your ass. I'd love to see you try and put me on my back, Ry." Boone laughed, ruffling his hair, and Ryan turned away to hide the blush. _What a fucking choice of words, Boone._

Boone turned back to his writing with a sigh, and Ryan continued to skim through a few more letters, smiling softly at Sid's terrible drawings. There were a few heart-wrenching accounts of the brothel, too, the paper a little sheer, like someone had cried onto it. Ryan didn't mention those bits, not now. The next letter he picked up, though, he couldn't help the stuttering gasp that escaped his mouth.

It was _filthy._

_Sid, my wrist is fucking sore from thinking about you last time. How I was standing against the wall, and you were fully off the floor on top of my cock, legs around my waist and arms around my neck, fucking yourself down on me. Every time you moved I could feel your dick bobb against my stomach, so hot and acheing for me, and those noises you were makeing, those demands for me to somehow go deeper -_

"Oh Jesus," Ryan muttered, shoving the letter back into the satchel.

"Mmm?" Boone glanced up from his letter, tilting his head at Ryan's blush. "What...oh, did you find one of our fun letters?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry. That wasn't for me to read."

"Read em all you want. I'm not ashamed of them. You might learn a thing or two!"

Ryan shot Boone an eye roll, but Boone's smile was crumbling, suddenly. "Boone? What's wrong?"

"I just can't stop thinking about the situation, Ry. What if all I have left of him after Iceland is these letters?"

"Well - look, I think you said Dubinsky has a friend over on the _Capital._ Right?"

"Yeah. Nick something or other."

"So, maybe you could ask Dubi to get Nick-something-or-other to, y'know, watch out for Sid. If you think he would?"

"Maybe. Dubi and I are a little, uh, awkward right now, but...yeah, maybe."

"Worth a shot."

"Yeah. I guess that would probably make me feel better." Boone offered another smile, even though to Ryan's eyes, it looked a little forced. "Hey, I think it's almost supper. You want to grab some food? Eat together?"

Ryan returned the smile. He ate alone far more often than he'd like to admit. "Yeah, Boone. Food, together. That would be nice."

~~~~~

Despite Ryan's companionship, for Boone, each day went by agonizingly slowly, lost in a haze of distress and worry. The sea was calm, with no other ships, and the days were long and boring, nothing to do but think up terrible things that might happen to Sid. He would torture himself with various scenarios for what felt like hours, only to realize it had barely been thirty minutes. And yet, the two weeks went by much too quickly; suddenly, they were due to dock tomorrow, would find out Sid's fate soon. Iceland loomed, and the distant shadow of the _Capital_ mocked him every day.

He felt immensely grateful to Ryan, who had taken up the mantle of supporter in Brandon's absence. Dubinsky had made himself scarce, opting to hang out with Cam and Jack, mostly. The evenings together in their room weren't awkward, not really, it was just a lot quieter than it had ever been between the two.

He'd finally gotten the courage to ask about Brandon's _Capital_ friend a few days before they were due to dock. If Nick-something-or-other could maybe watch out for Sid.

"Nick Backstrom. And, yeah," Brandon mumbled, barely looking up from his game of Solitaire. "I was planning to ask him to do that anyway."

"You were?" Boone couldn't disguise the shock, and Brandon finally looked up, annoyed.

"Give me some credit, Boone. I don't want stupid fucking Ovechkin to kill him, either," he said, sharply, and left it at that.

Boone turned that conversation over and over in his brain, now. Backstrom _was_ Ovechkin's #2...perhaps he could stop Ovechkin's cruelty. Perhaps he could - 

"Boone." There was a hand waving in front of his face, and Boone tilted back, blinking wildly. He jerked back to reality; he was in the mess hall, with Ryan, who offered him a soft smile. "Your food isn't going to eat itself."

"Huh? Oh." Boone poked at the small meal of salt pork and biscuits. Everyone else was thrilled, to finally stop in Iceland, restock much needed provisions. The food had been a little sad, lately. It felt strange, to be so upset while others were excited, at the sight of shore leave. "Sorry."

"I get it. But you should eat." Ryan sighed, pushing his empty plate away. "Look, I don't want to leave you, but...I promised Matty I'd help him inventory our current stock, so we can resupply in Iceland. Are you gonna be okay?"

Boone scoffed, plastering on a smile. "Am I gonna be okay? Murrs, I'll be fine. I _am_ fine. Go, Matty will appreciate the help. I'll be there soon, too."

Grabbing his plate, Ryan stood, patted Boone's shoulder reassuringly, and headed off.

Truthfully, Boone wasn't quite sure that he was fine. But Murrs had worried enough. He poked again at his food, his appetite slim.

"That's how I know you're really freaking out, you know. _Boone Jenner_ not eating his food." Lukas Sedlak, the ship's young cook, slid onto the bench across the table from Boone. 

He smiled sheepishly at Luk. "Hey, Sedsy. It's not the food - the food is fine, really - "

"Naw, it sucks right now. But soon we get restocked on land. It'll be better then. But I've seen you eat the worst, nastiest gruel without batting an eye. So it's not that." He glanced around; the mess was emptying rapidly. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice. "You're worried, huh? Sid."

"Yeah, Lukas, I am worried. Freaking out, like you said."

Lukas sighed, looking like he was having an internal battle about something, before nodding. "Look, I probably shouldn't tell you this. Foligno wouldn't be happy, I'd wager, to hear I told you. But...every morning, early as hell, while I'm prepping breakfast, Sid comes into the galley and makes food for himself and the Captain. Then he disappears, and I think it's the only time he's allowed to come out of Nick's cabin. So, you wanna see your, uh...you know, your...Sid," Sedlak blushed a little, obviously unsure what to call them. "Uh, before he gets sent off, come down here tomorrow morning. Early."

Boone's eyes were wide, hopeful. "How early?"

"Fucking early. I start prep at 5:30a and he's usually down here within 15 to 30 minutes of that."

"Sedsy, I could kiss you. Holy shit." Boone laughed helplessly, joy bubbling to the surface. He made a grab for Sedlak, giving him a wet, friendly kiss to his temple. "I owe you, man, so much. _So much."_

"You can start by never doing that again," he grumbled with a smirk, wiping at his temple, but Boone was already heading out of the mess, a flurry of activity, looking happier than he had in weeks. "Hey!" he called, to Boone's retreating form. "What about your...food."

Boone was already gone. Lukas picked up the biscuit and jammed it in his mouth, shrugging. More dinner for him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NHL All-Star Game is this weekend, and because they're in Tampa, there is a HEAVY pirate tie-in. To say I'm gleeful would be an understatement.
> 
> [Crosby in a black and gold tricorne JUST LIKE IN THIS FIC](https://i.imgur.com/papL0PL.png)
> 
> [Crosby with a parrot](https://twitter.com/NHL/status/957305025939890176)
> 
> Thanks, NHL!

Sid had never been a morning person.

He'd had to get up early, most of his life, but it never got easier. He survived the mornings through coffee, and most of the time on the ocean it was a truly awful tasting drink, but anything helped. He regularly volunteered for night shifts before he became Captain, enjoying the stars overhead, the quiet, inky blackness of evening.

As the morning sun peeked its rays into Foligno's cabin, and right into Sid's face, he was reminded again of his preference for the evening. "Mmm," he grunted, unhappily, at the sudden bright beam visible even through his eyelids, and flipped over to avoid it, bumping into another sleeping person as he did so.

He settled against the other warm body in the bed for what felt like just a moment before realizing with a start that this wasn't his bed, and the other person wasn't Boone. Eyes open, now, he jerked back, away from Nick. But, it was too late; Foligno had his eyes slit open, and even half asleep, the amusement was obvious.

"Didn't know you wanted to _snuggle_ , Crosby," he murmured, yawning.

"Sorry," Sid said, unable to sound cheerful this early in the morning. Normally he slept in a hammock, set up in the corner. But he hadn't been sleeping much, fear intruding into his thoughts at night. After a long afternoon of scrubbing windows, he'd cleaned up, then Nick took him to bed, then - he must have fallen asleep, here, afterwards. He rubbed his shoulder with a wince. Nick had bitten him up last night. _I want Ovechkin to remember who you belong to, when he sees you,_ he'd said. Like Ovechkin was going to give a fuck about a couple hickeys, when Sid's entire back was a permanent reminder of Alex.

"I thought you'd just passed out, but maybe it was all a ploy to cuddle." He chuckled at his own joke. "Unfortunately for you, I'm not much of a cuddler."

"I'm shocked," Sid replied, dryly, allowing himself that small little bite of a response. Luckily, Nick just smirked and closed his eyes again.

"Wake me up when breakfast is ready, Crosby. You know how."

Sid dragged himself out of bed. The early morning air was chilly, especially since he was naked, and he quickly gathered his discarded clothes from the floor and slipped them on. He smelled Nick on his skin, made a mental note to wash up again, as soon as he was able.

Foligno was already back dozing when he slipped out of the cabin and padded down the dark hallways towards the galley. Sometimes Sedlak had a pot of coffee already prepared by the time Sid got there. He hoped today was one of those days. He could use a cup immediately.

He stepped into the galley and was greeted with Lukas going still, looking up from his breakfast prep, staring at him. That was unusual. Typically, the young man at least offered a quiet greeting, and it had been awhile since he'd stared so openly - 

_"Sid,"_ a voice came from close by, to the side of him, and he barely had time to look up before Boone was there, grip firm on his shoulders.

"Boone? Holy fuck, Boone!" Sid laughed in disbelief, throwing himself into his arms. Boone accepted the hug with a whoop, holding onto him almost too tightly. Sid tilted his face upwards, and he would have tipped backwards with the force of Boone's kiss if he hadn't been secure in his arms. From behind them, Lukas made an uncomfortable noise and disappeared around the corner, into the pantry.

The kiss parted, and they babbled over each other for a moment, talking excitedly.

"Sid, I _missed_ you, I - "

"What are you doing here - "

"Well, Lukas told me - "

"I missed you too - "

Both men paused, finally pausing and laughing, breathless and joyful. "Okay," Boone said. "You first."

"God, I fucking missed you, Boone, I _love_ you, but - what are you doing here? How...?"

"Sedsy told me yesterday that you come down in the mornings. So I had to see you. Before, uh." The reminder of the looming evening on the _Capital_ sucked out a bit of excitement over the reunion, and their next hug was a little more somber.

"I love you," Sid mumbled into Boone's shoulder, the crush of the hug.

"Forever," Boone said, drawing air in sharply through his nose.

The little sniff from Boone caused Sid to stiffen up. _Nick. I smell like Nick, and he can tell._ He was suddenly very upset, that Nick was all over him, little flecks of dried come painted on his thighs. He choked off a sob, biting it back down. "Sid. What...?"

"I know, Boone, I know. I smell like _him."_

Boone pulled back to look Sid in the eye, cocking his head in confusion. "What?"

"You smelled me. And I know, I smell like Nick, and I hate it."

Boone laughed, shaking his head in confusion. "I wasn't _smelling_ you, oddball. I was sniffling. Trying not to cry. I missed you so fucking much. You don't even know. And I don't care what you smell like. Is that even a thing? You'll have me all over you soon enough."

"Your nose is broken," Sid chuckled, blinking back tears, playfully tweaking Boone's nose. He didn't know why he was suddenly so upset, over something relatively so trivial. But he had noticed it, lately, his emotions erratic and out swung over the smallest things. He'd accidentally knocked over a bucket of soapy water the day before and ended up crying for five minutes, grateful that Foligno hadn't been around to witness his tantrum. He didn't know what was wrong with him; he had actual _important_ things to worry about, yet he was crying over spilled water and apparently-imagined smells. Emotionally fragile was never something that Sid could be accused of. Yet, here he was. "Sorry. It was silly, I guess."

"Luckily, I love it when you're silly." Boone kissed him, again, lingering near his mouth. "You so rarely are."

"Silliness is for fools," he intoned, seriously. Just as Boone was lifting a skeptical eyebrow, Sid tweaked his nose again, and the pair dissolved into laughter.

"Look, I have to - as much as I want to stay here, in your arms, I have to make breakfast, for Foligno. So you gotta let me go."

"I'll help," Boone offered. "Then we get more time for hugs?"

"Maybe. Is there coffee started? How's the oatmeal look?"

"Sedsy," Boone hollered, and Lukas appeared from the pantry, peeking around the corner slowly. "You can come back in, now."

"Thank God," he muttered, moving to the big pot in the corner of the room and stirring it.

According to Lukas, the coffee was finishing up, the oatmeal pretty much done. Boone ducked into the pantry to grab the honey and marmalade while Sid snagged the butter and the fine china the _Blue Jacket_ had stolen from a merchant ship, which Nick enjoyed eating from. He spooned out two bowls of oatmeal from the big pot and set to work doctoring them as Foligno liked, mixing in the honey. Boone, returned from the pantry, stood behind him, nuzzling his neck.

"You said you were going to _help,"_ Sid scolded gently, although he relished the feeling of Boone's mouth along his hairline. "Go pour the coffee. Or slice the butter. Or put marmalade on the biscuits."

"Hard to pull myself away from you." He reluctantly moved off to the coffee pot, pouring three mugs, one for himself, in a much plainer cup than the delicate white-and-blue china mugs that Nick and Sid's drinks rested in. "I've been a real wreck, you know."

 _Good,_ Sid thought to himself, although he didn't voice it out loud. Now that the ecstasy of seeing Boone again had faded, he was still holding on to a bit of annoyance at his partner, for putting him in this situation. But now was not the time to express it; he still wasn't 100% positive he'd be alive tomorrow, after all, although he certainly wasn't going to voice that, either. He didn't want to watch Boone fall apart. "How is your back?" he asked, instead.

"Okay. Murrs took care of me this week. He was a real good nurse. That fourth lash, though..." Boone balanced the three cups of coffee, gingerly, as he walked back over to Sid.

"Make two trips, you dummy," Sid smirked as Boone nearly dropped one of the cups.

"Where's the fun in that? Look, didn't need to. Nailed it." Boone maneuvered them down on the table next to Sid. "Anyway, that fourth lash. Fuck, it hurt. Can I tell you again, how fucking _amazing_ you are, that you even survived that lashing you took? Your will is fucking iron, Sid. I was crying after the fourth lash. Dubi told me you didn't even make a sound until the tenth."

"He's wrong. It was the twelfth."

"Fuck me."

Sid cut a healthy pat of butter, scooping it into a side dish, grinning. "Hopefully soon."

Sedlak, from his position stirring the oatmeal pot, made a noise which sounded suspiciously like a gag.

"But not now. I need to go soon," Sid said, reluctantly. "If Nick finds out you were here - "

"I know, I know. It would be bad for Sedsy, too, right, since he's the one that told me? But before you go, I have something for you." Boone fished out the letter from his pocket. It was a fat stack, six pages of missive. Boone had just kept writing, almost using it as a diary of sorts. He knew the words repeated themselves, over and over, some variation of _I miss you_ plastered all over every page, but it was the best he could do.

"You wrote me a letter. Oh, Boone." Sid accepted it, itching to unroll the sheath then and there, but tucking it reluctantly in his pocket instead. "Thank you. I need to be distracted, today. Every second Foligno is out of his room, I'll be reading this."

Boone was blinking back tears, now. "You'll have someone looking out for you on the _Capital,_ Sid. Nick. Nick Buh...Back..."

"Backstrom?" Sid smiled. "He seems the kind of guy to do that. He's the reason I'm not already dead, from my last visit to that fucking ship. Hopefully he'll be able to repeat that."

Boone whimpered, pulling him close again in a fierce hug. "You're gonna be fine," he whispered, but it sounded almost like he was trying to convince himself, too.

"Yeah," Sid whispered back, letting himself be held for a long, long moment before sighing. "I really gotta go."

They kissed again, once, twice. "I love you," Boone said. "Forever, _I love you."_

Sid put on a smile, picked up the breakfast tray. "I'll see you soon, yeah? I love you, too." He didn't look back as he pushed the galley door open, was afraid he'd cry into Nick's oatmeal if he saw Boone standing there forlornly. If he didn't keep somewhat of a poker face, he'd never be able to hide Boone's visit from Foligno.

The letter sat heavy, against his thigh, as he nudged the door open to Foligno's cabin. It picked at his brain, and he sighed in frustration; it would be awhile until he was alone and he could read it. Nick was awake again when he entered, sitting up in bed, paging through a book.

"Took you long enough," he frowned.

Sid set the breakfast tray on the table. "Sorry. Oatmeal, uh...wasn't ready, today."

"Mmm. Well, your loss. I _was_ hard, now you're going to need to do some extra work to get me off this morning."

"Do you want to have breakfast first, then?" Maybe he could convince Nick to eat, and then perhaps he'd fall into his normal routine, skip the blowjob. But Nick fixed him with a look of annoyance, shook his head.

"Get over here already, Crosby."

Sid started to move over, but remembered the letter in his pocket. Fuck. He couldn't risk the letter sliding out into the bed, or having Nick grab it if he was feeling handsy this morning. He bit back a sigh and yanked off his pants, letting them pool to the ground, the letter safely inside.

"Oh," Nick snorted, eyebrows up, starting to smile. "That's what you want this morning, is it?" Sid put on what he hoped was a coy, flirty smile instead of answering. Nick hauled him down, into his lap. "I'll give you what you want, Crosby, don't worry. Just need to do some work, first." He grabbed Sid's hand, thrust it between his legs. "You want it?"

Sid nodded, curling his fingers around Nick, stroking.

"Tell me."

"Oh, I want it," he huffed.

"Well, of course you do, or else you wouldn't be getting naked and presenting yourself to me. You know," Nick lowered his voice, like he was sharing a secret. "After this is all done, and you're back sleeping in your room? You can come visit, if you need it so badly. You don’t need to wait for me to call for you. Just knock on my door. I'll give you what you need and I won't tell anyone. How about that?"

Sid thought he was going to need to bite a hole in his cheek to not say something he was going to regret. Luckily, Foligno gave him an outlet for his silence, gave him a gentle push downwards. "Go on, then? Coffee's getting cold."

If there was one silver lining to them arriving in Iceland, Sid reflected, it's that he was going to be away from Nick after today. He didn't quite trust himself not to smother him with a pillow if he had to put up with one more night of this.


	22. Chapter 22

Nick didn't spend any longer than he typically did in the cabin after sex, eating breakfast and reading through notes, but to Sid, it felt like an eternity. He laid a hand on his own leg, the letter sitting there, feeling its sharp creases and boxy shape, silently praying that Foligno would get out so he could read.

Nick left him with instructions to polish, shine, wash, and clean his dress uniform before he left. Sid realized that he wanted to greet Ovechkin, a visiting captain, in full regalia - unlike the greeting he received from Nick, so long ago. He bit down a wave of fear and quietly agreed, and finally, Foligno was out the door.

He fumbled with the letter for a moment, so eager to see its contents, skimming rapidly through the pages in case Nick decided to come back quickly. It was filled with apologies, love and yearnings, the occasional reflection of terror, and bold declarations of rescue and assurance.

_Nick is making a mistake and we both know it. EVERY BODY knows it exept Nick. But I swear, Sid, we'll find some way to protect you. Theres Dubi's friend and he'll protect you, and I fucking swear to God Ill board their ship and kill everyone before theyre alowed to kill you. I know, I can here you now, Boone don't do anything stupid. But I can't live without you. I'd rather die. I'd rather do something so collossoly stupid if it means you live, then die knowing I didn't do anything to try and save you._

__

__

_As long as I still breath, I'll fight for you._

"Your writing's gone to shit, Boone," he muttered, fondly, clutching the letter to his chest. Thinking that Boone was going to stand around idle while he perceived Sid to be in danger was, upon reflection, a silly thought. He wasn't quite sure whether he felt better about his chances of survival, or worse, for being scared of what Boone might actually do. Perhaps both. 

Sid shoved the letter back in his pocket and reluctantly began rummaging in Nick's desk for shoe polish. If he had his way, he'd re-read the letter all day; but he needed to get his work done if he was going to successfully hide the note. _Finish polishing the shoes, and you get to read the letter again,_ he bargained with himself.

And so he got through the day. Polish shoes, read letter. Clean cutlass and blunderbuss, read letter. Ensure whites were washed and clean, read letter. The ship docked, and Sid tried not to spend too much time staring out the windows at his first sight of land in months. The implications of seeing the shore, however, brought a sickening wash over him, and he threw himself back into his duties, if only as a distraction.

He finished close to lunch time and ate his own food quickly, which had been delivered with Nick's. Now that the meal was waiting for him, Nick was likely to be back any time soon, so Sid couldn't risk having the letter out, not when Foligno would walk into the room without a knock or indication. Instead, he settled in the corner where his hammock hung, grabbed his pillow, and settled on top of it, onto his knees. A long session of prayer certainly couldn't hurt. He prayed that God would put mercy into Ovechkin's heart, or, at the very least, to give himself the strength to bear what might come. Perhaps now that he was no longer a Navy captain, he wouldn't be treated like one. Perhaps Alex would listen to Foligno and respect his wishes. But Alex's smirking face and pleasure at the last time they'd met, wherein he'd been flogged nearly to death, still resonated in his head. He was not a man that seemed to give a damn about consequences.

"What are you doing?"

He jerked his head up at Nick's voice, eyes opening. Sid had been so engrossed in his thoughts and private pleas to God that he hadn't heard him enter.

"Praying." Nick narrowed his eyes at Sid's declaration, so he continued quickly. "I already completed your orders, sir, I polished your shoes and-"

"Stop, I can see everything looks good. What I'm skeptical about is what you're doing. _Praying._ You still do that?" Nick snorted in derision, unbelting his old, nicked cutlass and hanging it by the door next to the beautifully-hilted sword that Sid had just shined. "Do you think if God existed, that you'd be my whore, Crosby? Or maybe God just really hates you. Unless..." Nick started to smile, a little. "You seem to be enjoying yourself, lately. So perhaps God just works in mysterious ways. Perhaps you're here for a reason. Hmm?"

"I pretend very well, don't I," Sid blurted out, before he could stop himself. There had always been some kind of silent understanding between him and Foligno, that Sid was _pretending_ to enjoy himself and they both knew it. Lately, though, these last two weeks, Nick seemed to have been convinced that Sid's feelings had slid more towards genuine. He knew he should allow Nick to labor under that assumption, but the idea was repulsive to him, especially with Boone's letter in his pocket, a constant, heavy presence of what he was missing.

Foligno ignored that statement, for the moment. "Come here and make me tea, Crosby," he said, and slid into his chair, looking over his meal. Only when Sid had carefully made the pot, allowing the leaves to properly steep, then pouring a cup for Nick, did Foligno speak again.

"I think you like what we do more than you admit," he said, slowly, picking up the hot cup. "I am well aware that, for most of your tenure on this ship, it's simply been a very convincing fake. But these last two weeks...mm, I don't know. You almost seem _eager_ for it. So willing." He took a small sip of the tea. "I won't judge you, Crosby. It is a noble thing, to accept and even enjoy your role in life, however disdainful it may be to others. I think, in the long run, perhaps we get what we deserve."

Sid's nostrils flared as he scoffed. "You're saying that you think I _deserve_ this station in life?"

"How many men of mine have you killed in the past? How many more, if given the chance? Do you think you're a _good person_...Captain?"

The gently mocking nickname broke something inside Sid; there was a flash of helpless fury, and he picked up Nick's teapot and smashed it to the ground, watched it shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. The cup in Foligno's hands wavered, pausing halfway to his mouth as he stared at the remnants of the china, hot liquid starting to seep through the wooden floor.

"Well, that won't do," Nick said, and his voice was mild, but it had a sharp, dangerous edge behind it now. "Your back is already fucked up, Crosby. Do you enjoy pain? Do you perhaps have a thing for lashes?"

"You may as well kill me," Sid snarled. "I'll be dead tomorrow, if you don't do it today. You know, I never realized what a fucking idiot you are - "

Nick put down the teacup, slowly.

" - if you think Alexander Ovechkin has _any_ sort of honor, or will be bound in any way to your wishes or needs. You will ask him not to flog or kill me, and he'll do so anyway, and throw my corpse on deck with an apology. Everybody else sees that, _everybody - "_

Nick stood up, pushing his chair back.

"- except you. You're arrogant. You think that Ovechkin will obey your wishes simply because you're a captain, that you are Nick bloody Foligno and deserve his respect. You don't mean _shit_ to him, Nick."

Sid knew the punch was coming, braced for it, but it still hurt, he still ended up on the floor with blood trickling from his nose. But at least he'd said his piece. He couldn't resist one final jab: "And, if you're foolish enough to believe I actually _enjoy_ what we do...I question your judgment even more. Your touch is poison that I choke down every day out of necessity. Not want."

"You know, Crosby, if you had won this little war between us, I'd be dead. You would have killed me. So perhaps a little more gratitude is in order, that you're still here, in relatively good condition, time spent with your beau near every day. Hmm?" Nick knelt down beside him, staring him right in the eye. "Never forget that I still could kill you. I can do anything to you that pleases me. Because you lost this war, and I _won_. And unlike you, I have offered mercies." He stood up, deliberately towering over Sid, still on the floor. "If you ever speak to me like this again, you will wish that Ovechkin _had_ killed you. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Sid mumbled, trying to get his nose to stop bleeding.

"Excuse me? Is that understood?"

"Yes... _sir."_

"Good." Nick walked carefully around the mess, back to his desk, yanked open a drawer. "You know, I was debating on making you wear this or not, but you have made the decision easy for me. Do you remember, Crosby, when you were still a free man on shore leave, seeing whores walking along the streets? I mean, those women not beholden to a particular brothel. Do you remember how they advertised that they were for sale?"

"A ribbon." Sid remembered it well. There were always plenty of women - free agents, so to speak, that walked down the streets, whispered and winked at men, trying to entice them to part ways with their money. They were always scantily dressed, with too much makeup, and a black ribbon tied daintily around their necks to indicate they were for sale.

Nick nodded, and now he was holding something up, small and black. "Yes, that's correct. We don't have any ribbon, but I think this is more befitting for you anyway." He tossed it down, and Sid grabbed it out of midair and turned it over in his grasp, the other hand still pressed to his nose. It was a black leather collar with the ship logo of the _Blue Jacket._ His heart sank; ever since the brothel and its restrictive neck chain, he couldn't bear to have anything around his neck. It reminded him too much of his previous bonds.

"Boone has forgotten what you are, and it's apparent now that you have forgotten, as well. You're a whore, a _slave,_ Crosby, and it seems to me that you both need a reminder, so here it is. You will wear that at all times, and if I find you've removed it for any reason other than a simple adjustment, you will regret it. Your body is always available for our needs, just like those pretty girls and their black ribbons. I want you and Boone to look at it every single day and remember that. Hmm?"

Instead of answering, Sid wiped his bloody hand on his pants and secured the collar around his neck, suppressing a shudder as he pressed it closed. The leather was scratchy, but at least the clasp was not too tight. Still, he had to fight off a wave of fury and resentment, reminded himself that he was here, bleeding on the floor, with no leverage. He had to be silent, although it took everything he had.

"Oh, very good, now you're remembering your place," Nick said, dryly, condescendingly. "Now find a fucking broom and mop and clean this shit up."

As Sid cleaned up the mess he'd made, the little shards tinkling as he swept them into a pan, Nick was calmly eating his lunch and writing down notes. It put Sid on edge, a little; he expected some sort of residual anger from Nick, but none was forthcoming. After the mess was cleared, he stood in front of the desk, waiting for his next directions. Foligno let him stand there for a long time, clearly ignoring him.

Sid finally, gently, cleared his throat. "What next, sir?"

"Next?" Nick lowered his notes and narrowed his eyes at Sid, who could see now that he was still angry, irritation well-hidden behind his intense gaze and slight snarl. "Next, you can just fuck off, Crosby. Actually, why don't you go back to kneeling in the corner. But this time, instead of kneeling for your God, you're kneeling for _me."_

Sid bowed his head in acknowledgement and took his place back kneeling on the pillow. He kept a firm hand atop where the letter sat, a constant and soothing reminder of Boone, and he continued to pray, alternating with some meditation. He concentrated on his breath, staying calm, listening to the squeak of Foligno's chair as he fidgeted, and the soothing noises of a pen scribbling across parchment, the soft shuffling of paper. These were noises he loved, as a Navy captain, and he let them wash over him, provide a little bit of grounding.

Sid was unsure how much time had passed before Nick called his name again. It must have been awhile, because the sunlight hurt his eyes when he popped them open, and Nick had gotten into his dress uniform. He squinted at the captain, who was gesturing for Sid to come to him, two fingers in a lazy beckon. Foligno at least looked much calmer than he did before, almost neutral once again, although Sid knew he would not forget the teapot incident. He pulled himself up off the floor with a soft groan and dutifully walked over to Nick, standing in front of his desk. "Sir," he acknowledged; he figured that he needed to be a bit over-the-top respectful, at least for the rest of the day.

"Crosby, I've told you this before, but I do not derive any pleasure from dominating people. Although you could _certainly_ use another reminder in submission," he said, pointedly. "That said, today we will entertain either Captain Ovechkin or one of his representatives as they come to pick you up. You're quite the status symbol to own. And among pirates, status symbols count for a lot." Nick squinted his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. "It's annoying as fuck, but I have to play the game. And Captain Ovechkin is a great connoisseur of status symbols, as I'm sure you're not surprised to hear. He will expect to see you under my heel. And so you shall be, tonight."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"When you're in my presence, I want you to think of one word: _subservient._ When Ovechkin or his representative walk in, you'll be kneeling at my feet. You will obey any order I give you, quickly and enthusiastically. And you will not mention anything about Boone, or your grand little love story, or any of that shit. The official word will be that I broke you. You live to serve me." Nick paused, considering. "I suppose that's true, though, isn't it, Crosby, that your entire world is pleasing me. Perhaps you forgot that, earlier today, but I need you to remember that again. Yes?"

Sid felt his upper lip quirk up in a suppressed snarl. "Yes, sir."

"Good boy," Nick purred, patting the side of his thigh. "They're going to be here soon, so perhaps you'd better come get ready."

Sid gave Foligno a short side-eye as he knelt next to the captain's chair. He certainly hoped that Nick was not, as he said, enjoying this too much. If his earlier outburst was going to be punished by having to kneel and grovel before Foligno on a regular basis, he wasn't sure how much of that he could put up with. His blood already boiled on a daily basis at the submission he had to offer the crew; but this, this was _humiliation_ on top of that.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more rankled he became, that the _Capital_ crew would see him again for the first time at the feet of Foligno. Pride and dignity were the only things he retained on that ship the first time around, and now they'd be stripped away and he would be left with nothing. There came a knock at the door, then, and he must have huffed his distress out loud, because Nick laid a gentle hand on his head. "Relax," he murmured, then, louder: "Enter."

It was not Alex Ovechkin, but TJ Oshie that entered, and Sid wasn't sure which was worse. Oshie was the ship's #2, their Quartermaster, and he and Sid had a long, antagonizing history together, back when he was still Captain Crosby. The delighted expression on Oshie's face did not escape him; Nick had kept his hand on Sid's head, intimately, like a pet. He narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth at TJ's smile, which only got wider. He figured he owed no loyalty to Oshie, no requirement to bow to him as well.

Unless Nick commanded it. God, he hoped not.

"Captain Foligno," TJ nodded, respectfully, smile muting when he looked at Nick. "And your - _slave,_ hmm?" The word escaped his mouth slowly and deliberately, a cruel reminder.

"Yes. Please, come in, sit down. Mr. Oshie, isn't it?" Nick indicated the chair across from him, which TJ accepted.

"Call me TJ."

"TJ. Welcome to the _Blue Jacket._ We're honored to be traveling with you to new waters, and hope to continue our friendship with you and your crew. Can I get you anything? A drink, smoke, maybe his mouth?" Nick's hand moved down to Crosby's chin, presenting his face to TJ. Sid kept his face carefully neutral but he felt himself flush, hot and angry, at the offer. He felt betrayed. Foligno didn't need to go this far; it was an out-sized punishment, for what he'd done earlier.

TJ chuckled in response, bending down to peer at Sid's face. "I would love a glass of rum and maybe to take a look at your boy a little closer."

Nick let go of Sid's chin and tapped the back of his head. "Go. Crawl," he commanded. Sid bit back a growl, shuffling slowly under the table to TJ; he heard a desk drawer open, the gentle _ting_ of glasses being withdrawn, the pour of rum as he settled on his knees in front of Oshie's chair.

"Open your mouth," TJ told him, and Sid reluctantly obeyed, to which Oshie hooked two fingers into his cheek. Sid closed his mouth just enough to set his teeth on TJ's fingers, gently, deliberately, staring at him. A threat he'd never be able to follow through on, but a reminder to Oshie regardless about his level of submission to him.

"Still a little backbone, eh!" TJ just looked amused at the implicit threat. "Oh, I can see why you like him, Captain Foligno. He must be so much fun. I would love to know how this came to be?" He withdrew his fingers, wiping them on Sid's cheek and taking a swig of the rum.

"We captured him while he was attacking our ship. Turns out, every man has a breaking point, that moment you can shatter his spirit and leave him like...this."

"I'd imagine so," TJ mused, and to Sid's ear, it sounded like he wasn't quite convinced of that story. "I'll bet it took a lot, for this one. You know, you mentioned his mouth? I don't really want a blowjob or nothin', but maybe...maybe he can lick my boots."

Sid whipped his head over his shoulder to meet Foligno's eye, ground his teeth in frustration at Nick's nod. He turned back sourly, and TJ was tapping his foot in front of him.

 _I don't know how, I don't know when,_ Sid thought as he slowly bent over, lips touching the curve of Oshie's boot, _but I am going to fucking kill TJ Oshie._

The boot smelled absolutely terrible, but luckily did not taste particularly foul, just salty sea water and leather. He licked it slowly and listened in to snippets of the conversation from Foligno and Oshie. A lot of bullshit pleasantries, a barter for additional supplies that could only be found in the Caribbean, like certain varieties of rum. Then, the terms and conditions of Sid's night on the _Capital,_ a conversation which left his stomach twisted uncomfortably: no flogging, no death. But that still left a lot to open interpretation.

"Oh, we'd never kill such a good slave. After you spent so much time breaking him in? Wouldn't think of it," TJ insisted, but Sid didn't like the cheerful tone behind his words. "We'll treat him exactly as he deserves, Captain Foligno. Alex is very excited to be receiving him tonight. He sends his best regards to you, and I think he'll be more than amendable to that trade proposal of yours."

"Very good," Foligno noted. "Then he's all yours, Mr. Oshie."

"How are those boots coming, boy?" TJ peered down at him with a wild grin. "Oh, so sparkling! Such a good job he does, Captain. But, uh, I was hoping I could perhaps get a rope around his hands, to transport him to my ship."

"Oh, absolutely. Although I do not expect him to run. He knows the consequences of that."

"I'm sure he does, but it would make me feel a lot better. Don't want to lose your _property,"_ TJ replied, placing special emphasis on the last word, directed down towards Sid.

Nick called for a rope, to whomever was stationed right outside the door, and after a few moments they'd returned. Sid glanced over to see Bjorkstrand, holding a length of rope and looking uncomfortable at seeing Sid prostrated in front of Oshie.

"Allow me," TJ insisted, taking the rope from Oliver, who turned to leave.

"On your feet, Crosby," Nick told him. "Let him bind your hands."

"Yes, Crosby," TJ mocked. "Let me bind your hands."

The rope around his wrists brought back a flood of unwanted memories of the brothel. He kept his face blanked out, jaw set tightly so he wouldn't say something he'd regret.

"We'll have him back to you tomorrow," Oshie informed Foligno, chipperly, and then Sid was being led by his tied hands towards the _Blue Jacket_ gangway. There was a buzz on deck as they began to climb the stairs, and Sid realized that there were entirely too many men above deck, far more than was needed to run the ship. They'd come to gawk and stare as he was being led away like a prisoner.

He didn't want to be seen like this, with his hands tied, but he took a deep breath and held his head high, wanting to seem unconcerned, unafraid. From the left come a scuffle, and he glanced over; Boone was being restrained forcibly by a whole cadre of men, Dubinsky, Cam Atkinson, and even Seth Jones. Ryan stood nearby, looking distressed.

"Boone, _stop,"_ he heard Brandon hiss. Ryan laid a hand on his shoulder, said something quietly, which Sid couldn't overhear, but it took the fight out of Boone, and he slumped down, his eyes wet and shiny.

"Cute send-off," TJ smirked, and suddenly there were loud footsteps behind him.

 _"Get the fuck back to work!"_ Foligno barked from behind, causing a scramble. "If you're not supposed to be working above deck, fucking go away! This isn't some sort of entertainment for you!"

"Real cute," TJ said, and Sid lost sight of Boone as they made their way down the gangway, towards dry land. He couldn't even enjoy the feel of the earth under his boots, catching sight of the _Capital_ 's sails. "So, Foligno _'broke'_ you, eh? You and I both know that's bullshit. Yet there you were, licking my boots like a fucking dog, Crosby. What really happened? He got your family at hostage, or something? Or maybe...oh, there was that one big boy you were so pitifully staring at on deck, the one that had to be held back. You think you're in love, perhaps? You're more pathetic than I thought."

Sid figured he didn't owe Oshie a fucking thing, so he kept his mouth shut. TJ just snorted. "That's how it's gonna be tonight, huh? That's fine. We don't need you to say a fucking word tonight. Because I don't really give a fuck what you have to say." After a short march across the dock, they were at the _Capital'_ s gangway, and Sid really did not like the crazed grin on TJ's face. "After you, strumpet."


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of torture in this chapter. Not too graphic, IMO, but it's there.

Sid's sixth sense about danger pinged immediately upon seeing the guards for the _Capital,_ one stationed at the bottom of the gangway, and one at the top. They would not be allowing any visitors, apparently, and that could not bode well. Still, he could do nothing but ascend the plank, hands still bound together.

His unease kicked up a notch at the sight of the deck. There were far too many men above board, milling around idly. They hooted and cheered at the sight of Sid, watching him as he was taken away, below deck, to the captain's quarters. Was it simply curious gawkers, wanting to catch even a quick peek of Sid before he was taken to Ovechkin? He wouldn't think he'd inspire such interest. Surely, there had to be something else going on.

Alex chuckled upon seeing Sid, a low, smug sound, the laugh of a man who knew he'd won. "Sidney Patrick Crosby," he said slowly, like he was tasting the name, and Sid was immediately rankled, unsure how Ovechkin knew his full moniker. "But that's not your name anymore, is it, eh? Or did Nick let you keep it?"

Sid squinted, confused. "I don't know what you mean. Let me keep what?"

"Your _name_ , idiot." Alex nodded for TJ to let him go, and Oshie dropped the rope, nudged Sid forward. "You see, Sidney Patrick Crosby, were you a slave on _my_ ship, I'd leave you with nothing at all of your own. Not even a name. I'd take everything from you. You'd be called whatever I desire. Hmm," Alex tilted his head to the side, thinking. "I think...pet. Catchy, no? That'll be your new name, while you're here. My little pet. You like that?"

Sid snarled, baring his teeth at Alex, who had stood up and was advancing now. "I'm not your slave, Ovechkin. Don't forget that. I do not belong to you."

"Oh, and who do you belong to? _Nick?_ Don't make me laugh. Anyway, you are mine tonight, albeit temporarily. A pity, too, that your idiot little crew member - Dubinsky, right? That he didn't choose to sell you to me. Such a pity. I would have made an excellent master for the likes of you." Alex stuck his thumb out, caught it Sid's lower lip, pulling it down a little. "Although it does give me a great measure of satisfaction that you had to pleasure so many pirates for so long. A _brothel_ , is that right, my little pet? Tell me, what was your favorite part of getting fucked by so many strangers?"

Sid didn't answer, just gave a disgusted huff, and Alex pressed close, body on his. "You know," he purred, "Some men would beg to trade places with you, I think. Because yours is a life free of concern over choice. You never have to make a decision again, do you, my pet, because they're made for you now. Where you go, who you speak to, who you fuck - all of these are very big questions that most men have to confront. But not you, my pet, oh no, you can simply sit back and let life happen to you, let someone tell you exactly what you can and cannot do. It's freeing, in a way, I bet. Isn't it?"

"Why don't you try it, then," Sid said, through grit teeth.

"Me? Oh, no. I love choices. Not like _you,_ apparently. The fact that you're still alive, you haven't had the balls to off yourself yet...well, I guess you just love it on your knees. Don't you? Or is there something else?"

"I think he has a lover on the _Blue Jacket,_ " TJ said, and Alex laughed in delight.

"Holy shit, you put up with _this,_ all for love? Oh, God. What have I told you, Osh, about love, how fucking crazy it is? We see it here, now, don't we? How delightful. But enough of that for now, let's see how Nick is treating you, shall we? TJ, my boy, cut those ropes. Then, my pet, I want you to take your shirt off."

TJ snapped through the ropes binding Sid's hands with his knife, and Sid couldn't help but entertain an ever-so-brief moment of fantasy, him taking down Ovechkin and Oshie and - 

"Please try whatever it is you're thinking, pet," Alex urged, eyes wide and anticipatory. "I can see those gears working. God, just _try it._ Please." He seemed almost disappointed when Sid just stood there, unmoving. "No? Well, shit, please change your mind at any time. But if you're not going to try and escape, you need to take your shirt off."

Sid glanced backwards at TJ with a frown. He showed no signs of leaving; was this going to be some sort of weird threesome? Expression blank, he pulled his shirt up and over his head, letting it drop to the floor next to his feet, and stared at Alex while his eyes roamed over Sid's chest.

"Ooh, popular boy, I see," Alex snickered as his thumb flitted over various scars and old burns. "Let me guess, you were a truly terrible sex slave for awhile. Probably put up quite a fight, didn't you? Until you broke. Until you decided _love_ was worth all this. And now look." He pressed his thumb hard into one of the larger hickeys, causing Sid to jerk back with a frown. "That's so cute, that Nick thinks he can claim you with these little temporary marks. Oh, and a _collar_ , how adorable."

TJ chuckled, still standing behind Sid. "You should see his back, Cap."

"Oh, yes!" Alex's eyes lit up. "Turn for me, pet?"

Sid did as asked, facing TJ now, who winked. "You want to talk about real ownership, just look at your _back,_ my little pet. I know, you can't see it, but holy shit. What a tribute to my handiwork." Alex splayed his hand at the top of Sid's back and slowly dragged his hand down, across the scars and bumps and raised skin. Sid stiffened up, willing himself not to shudder. "It's exciting, that every man that's ever had you bent over has seen this. I wonder if this is what an artist feels like?"

TJ chuckled, and Sid flashed him a scowl. "Jesus, you talk a lot. Are we going to fuck, or not? Can we get this over with?"

 _"Fuck?"_ Alex hooted, sliding up next to TJ so he could look Sid in the eye. "Fuck you? Hell no, I'm not in the mood for sloppy one thousandths, or however many men you've had. Oh no, I have a very different idea of fun for us, tonight."

Sid tried not to look too upset. _I told you, Nick, I fucking told you._

"Are you afraid?" Alex asked.

"I'm not afraid to die."

Alex's smile sharpened. "Oh, I know. I can tell that. You've accepted your death a long time ago. But that's not what I asked." He stepped up, trailed his finger down Sid's cheek. "I'm not going to kill you, my pretty little pet. I promised Nick that much. TJ, what did Captain Foligno request of us, again?"

"No flogging," TJ said. "No death. Ahem, 'treat him well'."

"And you said?"

"I said we'd treat him exactly like he deserves."

"And so we shall. No flogging. No death. We treat you exactly how you deserve to be treated, a man who has killed my crew members, who has interfered in my business _again and again,_ caused how many fucking merchants I can't even count to escape from us." Ovechkin seemed to be getting worked up now, righteously angry. "I hope you realize that I didn't put you in this predicament. You did. Your actions, you worthless piece of _shit - "_ Alex stepped back, took a deep, calming breath, and when his eyes popped up again, he was back to the smarmy, arrogant, smirking man he was before. "Oh, pet, after tonight, I don't want there to be a single place on your body that your lover can lay his hands on and not feel my work. Every time he touches you, looks at you, I'll be there. And you know, as much joy as it gives me to think about you in captivity for the rest of your miserable life, part of me hopes dearly that you do escape. And if you do...go back to your Navy. Show them my wrath. Show them exactly what it means to fuck with Captain Alexander Ovechkin and the _Capital._ Do that for me, won't you?" Alex grabbed Sid's chin, nodding his face up and down. "Say yes for me, pet."

"Yesh," Sid slurred out, mouth contorted with Ovechkin's fingers.

"Perfect. Well then! Let's get to the fun part of the evening! Do you remember this?" Alex walked over to the hook by his door, snagged something which caused Sid's heart to lurch and ache, so badly that he nearly went to his knees. It was his old black and gold tricorne, from the Navy. He hadn't seen any part of his uniform in years. And here it was, the gold still brilliant and sparkly, the feather still light and jaunty.

Alex lowered it onto his head with a flourish. "How's it look?"

There was a sudden, sharp pain in Sid's side; TJ had poked him threateningly with the butt-end of his cutlass. "Answer him."

"Great," Sid whispered, suddenly feeling sick.

"That's not very enthusiastic," Alex said. "Let's see if we can't fix that. We'll go up on deck and see if we can put a little _excitement_ into your life, pet. Come on, ahoy!"

 _On deck._ Sid remembered, then, the men milling around, far too many than were typical. He had a sour feeling about what Ovechkin had planned, and was suddenly very afraid.

~~~~~

_Foligno, you fucking idiot._

Sid woke up with a groan, licking his dry lips, that strange thought rattling about in his head. He couldn't quite place why he was so angry at Nick, didn't know what the hell was happening or where he was, so he laid there and let his senses branch out, for a moment, seeking answers. _Well, I'm not in my bed,_ was the first thing he noticed; he could feel wood grain under his cheek and jaw, the floor a hard and unyielding spot to lay, half on his stomach and half on his side. His throat was so dry that his groan come out barely more than a whisper. Something smelled like blood.

_Am I dead?_

No, that question was quickly discarded. Sid figured if he was dead, he wouldn't be in so much pain; everything hurt. Unless, of course, he was in Hell. But then he'd expect it would be a little hotter in Hell, and it was actually quite chilly here on the floor.

"Finally awake?" came the inquiry, and that voice - everything rushed back to him. Sid blinked, eyes slowly focusing on the wide grin of Alex Ovechkin, toothy and bright. He drooped his eyes back closed. The light felt like sandpaper gritting on his lenses.

He remembered, then, the reason for his anger at Foligno. He was on the _Capital._ After his meeting in Ovechkin's quarters, he'd been led on deck, where most of the crew stood, his pants had been stripped - leaving him naked - and Sid had been tied to the mast with a rope around his waist. Although Ovechkin hadn't explained anything, Sid knew what was coming: a process called "sweating", where the crew would hold knives, surround him in a circle, and he'd have to run and duck and dodge the pointy ends. But the goal of sweating was usually death, and Ovechkin couldn't kill him, or so he swore, anyway. So instead of knives, most of the crew had held forks.

 _Forks._ Upon finding out that little detail, a disbelieving laugh had escaped his throat, so Ovechkin had snatched up a fork and stabbed him in the shoulder, hard. Sid had stopped laughing then. Worse, while most men had forks, both Alex and TJ Oshie had participated with actual daggers. Ovechkin had also placed a dagger firmly in the hand of his other lieutenant, Nick Backstrom. It didn't escape Sid's notice that every cut he took was from the blades of Ovechkin and Oshie. Backstrom hadn't seemed to manage to cut him once. _You'll have a friend on board,_ he remembered. But it hadn't been enough to stop the process. There was only so much that Backstrom could do.

Sid had found that, with quick feet and creative dodging, most of the fork strikes didn't hurt much at all. But the energy output to avoid them was tremendous; he supposed that's why it was called _sweating_. Rivulets of sweat had quickly joined the increasing trickles of blood until the deck became slippery and the salt burned his wounds. As he began slowing, and slipping in the puddles, the forks began finding their marks, leaving deep bruises or even three tiny, bloody holes where the tines had stabbed. Nick had tried to stop it, more than once, but was waved off by Alex each time. Ovechkin and Oshie had inflicted small cuts and stabs where they could, and after what seemed like an hour of slipping, falling, and getting back up - either on his own power, or hauled to his feet by a crew member - Sid could no longer stand. He'd made one more dodge around Ovechkin's blade, throwing himself backwards, but unable to catch himself any longer. He'd hit the deck hard, with a wet splat, sweat and blood soaking his chest. He remembered hearing the crowd cheering above the music, a fiddler churning out a spritely tune for his "dancing", and Ovechkin's booming laugh as he fell.

"Get up," Ovechkin had cheered, and Sid had been dragged to his feet, where he promptly hit the deck again. After another try of getting him back up, unsuccessfully, Nick had stepped in, looking grave, and barked that - as the _Capital_ 's physician - he had to insist that Sid could take no more. Finally, Ovechkin had agreed, begrudgingly. Sid was cut from the mast and dragged - literally - to the captain's quarters, leaving a trail of liquid behind him, like a slug. He vaguely remembered Nick following behind, begging Alex to allow him to oversee what he'd planned next.

"You worry too much, Nicky," Alex had told him, and slammed the door in his face, leaving him and Sid alone in his quarters.

Inside, he'd been strung up - which explained why his shoulders were screaming at him, as they'd held his entire weight, since Sid could no longer stand - and then caned ("It's bamboo! From China! Very exotic!" Ovechkin had explained, proudly) on his legs and ass. He could feel that there were already angry welts formed on the skin. Everything hurt, but one knee specifically was white-hot, boiling pain. At some point he must have passed out, and Alex had cut him down, where he'd hit the floor, unconscious.

And now here he was.

"No, you're not passing back out on me, are you?" Alex chided, nudging Sid with his foot. The feather in his cap - _Sid's_ cap - bounced, almost mockingly. "Oh, my beautiful pet, we're almost done, almost, almost. There's just one more thing we need to do. Stay awake for me, or I'll make it worse."

Sid teetered on the edge of darkness, his body wanting to pull him back down in the void, but he slowly peeled his eyes back open, squinting in the light. "Good, good," Alex praised. He was standing near what Sid blearily noticed was a bricked in hearth. It was the most gaudy thing he'd ever seen, that a Captain would pay an exorbitant sum to make a fucking _fireplace_ in his quarters; the one in the galley was usually expensive enough. He was holding something, a rod of some sort stuck inside the blazing hearth, and he pulled it out to inspect it.

The rod was iron, and at the end was something shaped like the _Capital_ bird logo on their flag. Ovechkin squinted at it, stuck it back into the hearth again.

Sid exhaled sharply, panicked, as he realized what it was. It was a _brand._ "No - Foligno's going to be pissed," Sid tried to make his mouth move, form the correct words, but all that came out was a low hissing sound.

"Oh, did you figure out what this is? It's a brand, my little pet. Did you know - and I know slavery is illegal in Pittsburgh, so perhaps you don't - but branding has a long and illustrious history in the slave trade. It's literally the mark of property. You can never take it off. It ties you to me forever, with my mark. Sort of exciting, huh? Despite Nick being your _legal_ owner, you'll see this every single day, and so will your lover. Nobody will ever forget about Alex Ovechkin."

Sid tried to speak again - say something about Foligno's fury, or plead for mercy - but his mouth didn't seem to work.

"Yes, it is going to hurt," Ovechkin said, as if Sid had spoken coherently. "But not for too long, so I've heard. I mean, I sure as hell wouldn't know, I'm not property. Now, where do you want it? What do you think? Right on your forehead? Ah, that's a little too gaudy, even for me. What about your chest? Oh, I like that. Then no matter which way you get fucked, face up or face down, they can see my work. Ooh, that's _nice."_

The brand was red with heat and curling with smoke as he pulled it from the hearth and approached with a smirk. Sid tried to crawl away, to protest, to do _something,_ but it seemed like none of his limbs worked. Ovechkin nudged him with the toe of his boot, rolling him over onto his back, and all he could do was stare at the iron, pulsing angry red above him. Just as Alex was extending the iron down, he tried one last burst of energy, to roll away, but only succeeded in catching the brand above his nipple instead of dead-on in the sternum.

"Look what you did," Alex chided over the sound of Sid's scream, raw and raspy. "It's not in the center, now. Hey, what the - ?"

There were footsteps, a loud knock at the door, but Sid didn't care about anything except the pain; it felt like his nerve endings had been singed off, and he stared at the ceiling and moaned. He vaguely heard the door open, Alex snarling, "What the fuck do you want? Can't this _wait?"_ It sounded to Sid like he was deep, deep underwater, under the ocean, listening to something happening topside, the voices distorted and distant. Sid heard them talking, caught a few words like _Blue Jacket_ and _hostage_ and _demanding_ ; he wondered, for a split second, whether he should try to stay awake for what was to come. Was this rescue, was Boone doing something stupid? But the brief thought of staying awake slipped through his fingers, the void he'd been teetering on calling to him, and Sid welcomed it with open arms. He wasn't sure if it was death or simply unconsciousness, and he couldn't bring himself to care.


	24. Chapter 24

The _Blue Jacket_ crew had a plan.

Well, two of them, anyway.

The night before they docked, Brandon and Boone had huddled in their room, strategizing about the next day. "Look, as soon as we dock, I'll be able to leave the ship and get on the _Capital_ ," Brandon said. "The excuse is that I need to talk to their own QM and we scope the town out, determine the best places to restock. Which I _will_ need to do...but I'll have a chance to talk to Backy, also. Give him the heads up to watch out for Crosby."

"And then?" Boone asked. "If they are killing Sid, it's not like Backstrom is gonna be able to get off the ship and come snitch to us, right?"

"Do you have anybody you trust, that the Caps boys don't know, that can hang outside their ship without really being noticed? Backy can look over the rail and give him a signal, which will be his cue to come back and get us. And we storm that fucking ship."

"Ryan."

Brandon crinkled his nose. _"Him?_ You really trust that guy to do the job right and not just puke at how scary the situation might be?" Boone scowled at him, and Brandon held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. It's your boy."

Boone's frown deepened, suspicious. "Why are you even doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Helping Sid."

"Oh no. I'm not helping Crosby. I'm helping _you_ , Bam Bam. Look, I know things have been...rough, between us, lately." Brandon's expression softened. "But you were... _are_ , fuck, I dunno...my best friend. Right? I still care about you. I still want to see you happy. And if that means rescuing your stupid husband or partner or, _ugh,_ whatever the fuck he is, then that's what I'm gonna do. Besides, Alex Ovechkin can go fuck himself."

"Well. Thanks." Boone smiled, weakly, at Brandon, before his frown was back. "Wait. You said storm the ship. You really think we're gonna be able to get anyone else to help us?"

At that, a slow, self-assured smile spread across Dubinsky's features. "Oh yeah, trust me. We got Andy, he feels like he owes Crosby, from that whole flogging incident earlier. Cam likes your dumb ass a lot so he's in, plus he's fucking itching for a fight, and Jonesy's upset at the prospect of not being able to fuck our whore - " He paused at Boone's expression, which had immediately gone stunned and furious. "Oh, uhhh, um, I mean, if they don't have access to Crosby anymore, er, that's not good for anyone. Also, uh, we all support and love you?"

"You're a real asshole sometimes," Boone told him. " _Most_ times, maybe."

Brandon shrugged, not arguing. "Yeah."

~~~~~

"Gonna wear a hole in the deck," Brandon told Boone, who had been pacing a line back and forth ever since Sid had been taken off the ship.

"Can't help it. Did you see the smug look on Oshie's face as he took Sid away? In fucking _ropes_ , like some sort of prisoner."

"Well, he kinda was. A prisoner, I mean," Seth Jones told him, passing a flask of rum back and forth with Cam Atkinson and Josh Anderson.

Boone grunted, pausing to stare down the dock in the direction of the _Capital_. They'd waited till the _Blue Jacket_ docked, and - despite there being plenty of room nearby - had gone down to the other end of the dock, far enough away that nobody could hear what was happening on the ship. Boone was quite sure that was deliberate, and he knew it did not bode well.

"Did Oshie tell you anything? When you and he went out to scope the town. About - "

Brandon interrupted, shaking his head. "For the last time, Boone, no, he didn't say shit. God knows I tried to ask."

There were steps, suddenly, on the gangway, and every man on deck perked up. "Fuck," Boone muttered, at the sight of Ryan, bent over and gasping.

"Ba - Backstrom - signal. They were - were _fiddling_ \- "

Everybody was on their feet, weapons already drawn. Boone shared a wide-eyed look with Brandon; both of them knew what fiddling implied. "Ryan, go get Foligno," Boone barked. Nick had left shortly after TJ. "Whorehouse. Down to the left." Ryan did not look thrilled to have to interrupt Nick, but nodded and took a few deep breaths before taking off in that direction.

In the opposite direction lay the _Capital_ , and that's where the men were running towards. "You did say," Boone panted, running at top speed, "That you had a plan - for there being only - five of us and - a fucking ton of them?"

"Oh yeah, leave it t'me," Brandon grinned, a feral sort of smile he got right before a fight, and ran right towards the _Capital_ crew member at the bottom of the gangway, who was motioning for them to stop. Brandon bowled right into him, knocking him off the dock and into the water, and continued up the gangway, with Boone and the other men hot on his heels.

"Hey - !" The guard at the top of the gangway shouted, but Brandon threw him off the plank as well, into the water with a loud _splash._ The commotion was causing some interest as men began to run over. Right at the top of the gangway was Nick Backstrom; Brandon grabbed him hard, Nick's back to Brandon's chest, and drew his cutlass against Backstrom's neck. 

"None of you fuckin' _move,_ " Brandon snarled. "Unless you don't want any goddamn medical attention for the foreseeable future. Huh? Get the fuck back!"

It was not a coincidence, then, that Nick was standing there, Boone figured. Men were starting to draw their weapons; it was quickly becoming a stand-off.

"Dubi?" TJ Oshie stepped up, looking more confused than concerned. "What in the fuck are you doing, man?"

"This isn't about you, Osh. Stay the hell back."

"So what is it about?"

"You have our property," Brandon growled, and Boone felt a little gut-punched at the word.

"Yeah, well, Foligno gave him to Alex for the night, fair and square, so - "

"We heard _fiddling,"_ Boone said, taking a step towards TJ, threateningly; the other man looked unimpressed. "We all know what fucking fiddling means."

"Oh, fuck off. Are you so dumb as to think fiddling only means one thing? Maybe we just like to dance, you ever think of that?"

Boone growled, knuckles white on his cutlass. "If we're wrong, I will personally give you _every_ cut of booty I'm owed for every ship we've looted on our trip from the Caribbean. Every single fucking piece of eight. It's yours. Show me Sid, now."

"Sorry, interrupting Alex isn't worth however the fuck much small amount you'd give me."

Now it was Brandon's turn to look unimpressed. "Look at me, Osh, I can make a shitty skeptical expression just like you. I fuckin' know you, no goddamn way you're turning down money for _nothin'_. Also, you don't have a fucking choice!" Brandon pressed his cutlass harder, into Nick's neck, who was starting to look genuinely frightened; a small drop of blood rolled down the blade.

"TJ, please," Backstrom murmured. "Just get him."

Oshie snarled a curse, pointing his sword at the _Jacket_ s crew. "Just remember, you're on our ship, there are five of you assholes, and we could slaughter every single one of you. Wilson, you're with me." He gestured to one of the large men, who followed him down the stairs, towards the captain's cabin.

Brandon relaxed the blade from Backstrom's neck, much to his obvious relief. From behind them, they heard Foligno even before they saw him. "What in the absolute _fuck_ is the meaning of this?" he demanded, as he ascended the gangway, looking shocked and confused at the scene - his own men, weapons drawn, with a captive, and facing down a whole ship of hostiles. Ryan followed close behind, looking exhausted.

"They've hurt Sid," Boone said, and Nick scowled, teeth bared.

"How the fuck do you know? I swear, Boone, you'd better pray that you're right, or I'll hang every one of your corpses from the yardarm and let them swing in the fucking air until we get to Russia."

There was a muttering from Seth, Cam, and Josh, but they held their ground, looking significantly more nervous than before.

"Captain Foligno! Well, this is certainly a surprise. I thought you'd said we had all night with him...?" Ovechkin was coming up the stairs, his smile bright and wide. Too wide; it set the hair on the back of Boone's neck up on edge.

"Please accept my _sincere_ apologies, Captain Ovechkin. I had no idea my crew was planning anything like this. They seem under the impression that Crosby - ...uh..." Nick trailed off, eyes going wide. Behind Alex came TJ and the crew member he'd recruited from deck, Wilson, who was carrying a limp figure up the stairs. Boone couldn't see who it was, with Ovechkin blocking the way, but he knew; he heard Nick mutter to Seth and Cam and Josh, "Get Boone _now,_ " and then just as he surged forward with the notion to kill every single thing that moved on the _Capital,_ his sword was disarmed and strong arms circled him.

"Boone, you're gonna get us all killed," Cam moaned, as they held him back. "Wait, just wait, just wait!"

Boone howled in fury. He could see Sid, now, unconscious and looking terrible. There was a thin sheen of sweat and blood coating his skin, although Boone couldn't see any grievous wounds, only a few cuts here and there. Wilson dumped Sid onto the deck, where he landed hard with a splat, not moving.

"Move it," Brandon told Backstrom, above Boone's threatening curses, and the pair moved over towards Sid, with Backstrom immediately down on the deck and checking pulse and vital signs. Foligno had his own cutlass out, now, was pointing it towards Ovechkin, who was offering an apologetic smile.

"What in the fuck is the meaning of this, Ovechkin?" Foligno demanded, gesturing down at Sid. "I gave him to you so you could _fuck_ him, not...whatever the hell you did!"

"Oh, fuck him?" Alex looked a little put-off by that. "But you said he was your crew whore. Do you really think I'd be expected to stick my dick in something your whole ship has had? Maybe if you lent me your personal wench..." Ovechkin trailed off at the look on Nick's face, chuckling in feigned-surprise. "Wait, do you mean you use the same whore your crew uses? Oh, well, how... _frugal."_

"Boone," Foligno snapped, irritated at the constant threats and screaming coming from him. "You'll get your say, just...shut up for one second. And Alex, I fucking swear to God - "

Alex held up a hand, interrupting Nick. "No need to be blasphemous, now, Nick. It's not as bad as it looks. I mean, you told us not to flog or kill him, and we've done so."

"Not as bad as it looks? He's fucking covered in blood! He's unconscious on the deck! I told you to _treat him well!"_

"Mmmm," Alex held up one finger, waggling it at Foligno. "And we said we were going to treat him exactly like he deserves. Which, I assure you, is far worse than this, but you _did_ say not to kill him, so we worked with what we had. Besides, he'll be ready to serve you and your crew again in...bah, give it 24 hours and he'll be fine."

Brandon turned, then, from Sid's body, scoffing. "Are you fuckin' crazy? He's covered in a thousand cuts and his legs look like you stuffed rocks in them, they're so full of welts. He's not even gonna be able to stand for God knows how long."

Alex winked at Brandon. "Dubinsky, I don't know how you're having sex, but trust me, you do not need to have your whore standing up to do it." That started up Boone's fury again, and Alex sighed theatrically, wincing. "Oh, this must be Crosby's little lover. Just let that kid go so he can rampage around the deck and we can kill him to shut him _up,_ huh, Nick?"

"Boone!" Nick reprimanded, again, turning back to Ovechkin with a scowl. "He's not wrong, though. This is _unacceptable._ You, there, your doctor - "

"Backstrom," Brandon said.

"Backstrom. Give me a report. Will he die?"

Nick Backstrom looked up, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. As long as you clean him up and prevent infection. But he'll be bedridden for weeks, likely, and I'm not quite sure he'll ever walk the same. I don't know what happened to it, but something crushed his knee."

"Ooh," Alex winced. "Yeah, about that. I was caning him, and - oops - I think I got his knee instead of his leg. Broke my damn cane right in half though, that shit was _bamboo,_ very expensive from China! So let's call it even."

"And this," Backstrom scooted out of the way, revealing the twisted scar tissue on Sid's breast. It was still ugly and tangled, but there were two unmistakable wings there.

Foligno stepped forward, staring in disbelief. "Is that a..."

"Brand! You fucking branded him!" Boone glanced upward, at the flag flying overhead. "With your logo! What the _fuck - "_

"God fucking dammit," Nick muttered, then, louder, to Alex : "That's my property, Ovechkin. You branded _my_ property with _your_ logo. What the fuck were you thinking?"

Ovechkin tipped his chin up. "Nick, this asshole used to be a Navy captain. We've had a number of run-ins with him, sustained numerous losses. I wasn't thinking of him as _Blue Jacket_ property. All I could think about is that he's an enemy."

"Was an enemy," Nick shot back. "It doesn't matter what he used to be. He's _mine_ now, and you marked him."

"Well, I can't take it off."

"No, but you're going to make it right. Draw your sword."

Alex laughed in disbelief. "Are you challenging me to a _duel?"_

"You clearly have no respect for me or my ship, so I fail to see any other way to resolve this. Draw your _sword,_ Ovechkin."

"Now now now." Alex held up two hands. "If that's truly what you want, Nick, I will duel you. And it will not end well for you, I guarantee it. But - you know, I'd feel bad, cutting you down, when I already owe you, a little, for temporarily destroying your property. That's not how friends operate, is it? No, and my manners were quite poor here, I'll admit. So maybe we can hit the town, have a drink, and come to another conclusion, like civilized men. You bring Dubinsky, I'll bring TJ, and we'll negotiate. I'm sure I can offer you something of commensurate value, some other commodity that will more than make up for what we've done to your slave." Ovechkin's eyes went wide suddenly, and he grinned. "And I mean, if you don't want to spend medical resources on him - I can't blame you one bit - you could just sell him to me. I'll give you better than market for him, really. I'll overpay, just for you."

"You're going to pay for his fucking medical resources," Foligno said, with a scowl, but lowered his sword. "Fine. We'll meet at the closest tavern to the docks, right next to where we're docked. If you bring anybody but Oshie, we'll assume we're being attacked and will call an entire contingent of my men down on your ass. So if you want to walk away in one piece, you'll follow these agreements to the letter. Is that understood?"

"Oh yes, very well."

Foligno nodded at Seth, Cam, and Josh. "Boys, take Crosby back, will you? Boone, can we let you go and you not get your ass killed, please?"

Boone was still breathing hard, but he nodded, curtly. "I'll carry him," he grit out. "Just tell them to let me go."

At Foligno's signal, the three _Jacket_ s crew members let go and stepped back, like Boone was some sort of wild animal. He ran over to Sid, nearly skidding on deck to get to him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he moaned, not quite knowing where to pick Sid up; it looked like everything hurt. He stared wildly back at Ovechkin, starting to get to his feet, but was yanked down immediately by Brandon.

_"No,"_ Brandon hissed, shaking his head. "Backy, what do we need to do when we get him back?"

"I'd take him straight away to your own ship's physician. Zach, is it? He'll need to clean Crosby up, a few of these wounds are likely to need stitches, wrap that knee up, put some grease on that brand. He'll want some opium for sure, this is not going to be a painless recovery. You can pick him up," Backstrom told Boone. "You won't hurt him further."

"Thank you," Brandon mouthed to Backstrom while Boone picked Sid up, who was still unconscious, head lolling back. Boone's shirt was immediately stained red as he carried him off the ship.

"Come on, then," Foligno nodded at Ovechkin. "We'll head out now for that drink."

Ovechkin started scoffing, but Nick put his foot down. _“Now.”_

“Alright, alright,” Alex muttered.

They made quite the procession, down the dock; Boone in front with a naked, bloody, unconscious Sid, a step in front of the other _Jacket_ s crew members, then the Captains and their #2s, expressions ranging between stormily angry to irritated. Everybody on land gave them a wide berth.

"I'll go get Zach," Ryan said, running up ahead to the _Blue Jacket._ They were waiting when Boone climbed the gangway, to mutters and surprise from the men working on deck. Seth, Cam, and Josh quickly disappeared. _Probably eager to start their shore leave and get away from this shit show,_ Ryan figured.

"Huh!" Werenski snorted, as Boone laid Sid gently at his feet. "Man, I thought he was ugly before. He's gonna be _real_ fucking scarred up now."

Ryan grabbed Boone's wrist before he could do anything, silently shaking his head, _no._

"Alright, let's see what we got," he said, kneeling and letting out a short whistle. "Oof, somebody did a number on him, real good. But, so far as I can tell, nothing life-threatening. Hmm." He touched the brand mark, and Sid jolted back awake with a whine, still mostly out of it.

"Sid!" Boone grabbed his shoulders, staring into his face. "Sid? Can you hear me?"

"Uh huh. C'n I...dr...drink?"

Boone unhooked his flask from his belt, tipping it back into Sid's mouth, who choked and coughed, liquid running down his chin and cheeks. "Do we need to move him to your room, Z?"

Zach waved his hand, dismissively. "We'll be fine right here. Make sure he doesn't squirm, won't you," Zach asked, conversationally, like he had no concerns in the world. He yanked a container of grease from the small sack he was carrying and slathered it on the burn, ignoring Sid's dull whine of pain.

"Zach. Can't we get him some opium? Normally for these things..." Boone trailed off. Hell, he'd been given a tincture of laudanum for burned hands before, but Werenski wasn't offering anything for this?

"We don't have a lot. He'll be fine with alcohol," Zach said, and with the way he was avoiding Boone's eyes, his carefully-neutral voice...

It was Ryan that snapped first, though, shocking both men. "Bullshit," he said. "We're _docked_ , Z. We can pick up as much opium as we want, here. Foligno told Ovechkin he was gonna pay for it anyway. So don't worry about 'wasting' supplies on Sid if that's what you're doing, which, by the way, is a really shitty thing to do. Okay?"

Zach stared up at Ryan for a long moment before relenting. "Okay, okay. It's in my bag. All yours." He waited for Boone to help Sid drink the opioid mixture before nudging him out of the way and bandaging the burn, wrapping the cloth around his body and tying it, not gentle enough for Boone's liking. Next, he called for a water bucket, washing down the worst-looking wounds with sea water, then threaded the needle for the suture. Based on the noises Sid was making as Zach maneuvered him and sewed the wounds, the pain killer hadn't kicked in yet. Every whimper was like a kick to Boone's stomach. All he could do was stroke Sid's hair comfortingly, the strands clinging damp to his forehead every time Boone passed his fingers through.

"How you doing?" Boone whispered to Sid as Zach worked.

Sid blinked slowly at him, eyes glassy. "Not dead yet," he mumbled.

Zach finished sewing and poked at his knee, eliciting a sound from Sid more suited towards a dying animal. "Want me to cut this off, Crosby? I can't really do much for it."

Boone hissed, horrified. "Zach, _no!_ "

"Suit yourself," Zach announced, standing up. "Then we're done here. He'll need to rest. Better take him back to your room."

"I'll help," Ryan offered, because Zach seemed in no hurry to volunteer, and there was no way Sid could walk on his own.

"Thanks," Boone flashed a grim, grateful smile at Ryan, gently lifting Sid up with his help and moving past a disinterested-looking Werenski towards the stairs, down to their room. It was slow going, with Sid a dead weight in their arms, but finally they made it. Ryan managed to open the door, and they set Sid on the bed. At some point during their carry, he'd passed out or fallen asleep.

"That's probably for the best," Ryan murmured, pulling Boone into a tight hug. "What else can I do? Should I stay?"

"I don't know," Boone admitted, staring at Sid. "I don't know what to do. Maybe - ...I think I just want to be alone for awhile. Anyway, you've done so much - "

"I'm happy to do more. Just ask. If you need _anything..."_

"I know where to find you." Boone grabbed him close, kissed his temple. "I owe you, Murrs. Again."

"Just take care of Sid."

Boone nodded, watched Ryan slip out the door, and turned his attention back to the battered body on the bed. He wanted to hug him, but didn't want to risk it; he didn't know what hurt. Fuck, it looked like everything hurt. He settled for laying down next to the other man, but gently curled his fingers around Sid's, squeezing them. No squeeze came in return. He was passed out.

Now alone, Boone felt himself choking up, tears brimming around his eyes. _This is my fault._ Sid always said he was the only man he could trust, unconditionally, not to hurt him, and then Boone had gone and caused this, the _worst_ thing he'd gone through since coming on board. Not even Savard had been this bad.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, even though he knew Sid couldn't hear, and then the tears did start, even as he tried to choke them back. He'd cried more in the past few days than he had perhaps ever, previously, and he hated the sensation, of not being in control, of his face damp and salty, tears tracking through his beard. He buried his face in the covers to cry and ended up falling asleep there, next to Sid, suddenly exhausted.


	25. Chapter 25

The next time Sid woke up, the sun was shining bright through the porthole, and there was an argument in his room.

He cracked his eyes open, blearily; they seemed to refuse to open the whole way, so he gazed out with half-lidded eyes. Nick Foligno was in his room, which was startling enough, but he was having an animated, angry discussion with Boone. Another surprise.

" - Dubi told you. We told you, _everybody_ told you - " Boone was saying, obviously trying to keep his temper in check, but not doing a great job.

"I get it," Nick snapped. "Stop fucking talking. I didn't come down here to be berated, especially not by the likes of you. I was wrong, Boone, that much is very clear. And I am sorry, that my lapse in judgment caused this."

"Don't apologize to _me,"_ Boone insisted, gesturing down to Sid. "Apologize to - oh. Sid, you're awake!"

Sid grunted as Boone sat next to him, causing the bed to shake. "Wh'time...thirsty..."

"Oh yeah, you slept all night. You needed it. Here," Boone offered his flask again, and Sid cringed, expecting terrible grog, as before - but instead, it was water, refreshing and clean. Sid gently yanked the flask from Boone's grip and started chugging; he couldn't get enough.

"Take it all," Boone encouraged. "It's spring water from shore." It was better than the water they kept on board, which often got so disgusting they had to dilute it with beer to create their grog. Sid hadn't tasted clean water in months; he drained the flask dry and flopped back on the pillow, exhausted again. Boone looked up at Nick, gestured to Sid. "Well? I think you owe him an apology."

Nick made a thoughtful noise, watching Sid carefully. "It won't happen again," he said. Boone seemed slightly more placated, but Sid said nothing; it did not escape him that it was not a true apology, not like what he gave to Boone.

Boone took his flask back and frowned, seemingly noticing the collar for the first time. "What...?"

"Oh, that. I'm glad it survived your little...ordeal, Crosby. Boone, he'll be wearing that from now on. Just a reminder, so we don't end up in this position again."

Boone touched the collar, rubbing his thumb over the _Blue Jacket_ logo, his other fingers gently curling along Sid's neck. "I don't understand," he said, although from Sid's vantage, he could see that it was more like Boone didn't quite want to believe the implication of it, that there had to be another explanation. He grabbed onto Boone's wrist, squeezing weakly.

Nick had picked up on that as well. "I think you understand quite well, Boone. I know you love him. But he is not yours. And you," he nodded, addressing Sid, "Would do well not to forget your place again."

"Forget - ?!" Boone yanked his wrist from Sid's grasp and was on his feet and in Nick's face in a second. Nick didn't step back; just narrowed his eyes, and Sid saw that same dangerous look he had earlier, before he'd been punched.

"Boone - " Sid tried to warn, voice gravel, but it was no avail.

"What did he do, that he 'forgot his place'?" Boone demanded.

"He questioned me," Nick said, enunciating every syllable slowly. "...Boone, I think you ought to step back."

"Let me guess, did he question you about the terrible decision to give him to Ovechkin? So he was correct, then?"

"Crosby doesn't get to question me about _anything,_ " Nick bit. "I could tell him the fucking sky is purple, and I'll expect that he fucking agrees with me, because he doesn't get an opinion anymore!"

Boone threw his hand back to his hip, where his cutlass hung - Sid saw then that both men were armed to the teeth, obviously still concerned about recent events at the _Capital._ He wasn't sure if it was deliberate, if he was attacking Nick, but Foligno obviously believed so. He lashed out with a heavy punch; Boone stumbled back in surprise, and in a flash Nick had his dagger out of his boot, pressed against Boone's neck. "Hands up," he hissed. "Hands fucking skyward _right now_ or I'll bleed you out right here."

Boone lifted them high, still looking shocked. "I didn't - I wasn't - !"

"Oh, you weren't going back for your sword? Or your gun?" Nick slowly walked him backwards until Boone was pressed to the wall, and Sid moaned in terror. It all looked very familiar, and he remembered his first night on the ship, Nick's dagger at his own throat. Boone shook his head, _no_ \- Nick snorted, spit on the floor in disgust.

"I should kill you for being a lousy liar," he said. "I should especially kill you for daring to draw against me. Try it again and you best fucking kill me. Do you know what'll happen if you don't?" Nick paused, obviously waiting for an answer - Boone shook his head again, eyes wide. "If you dare try this again, _ever_ , you will of course suffer a long and painful death. You'll be flogged half to death, and then I'll have you hanged, and not mercifully; not that instant neck-break you might hope for. No, the crew, _your friends_ , they'll lift you by your neck up the yardarm and you'll choke to death. That slow strangulation can take a long time, Boone. I've seen it. And your boy would watch the whole thing." Nick tilted his head towards Sid.

Boone groaned. "Captain, I - "

"Oh, I'm not done yet. After you're dead, I can't really expect Crosby to be loyal to me after I've killed his partner, can I? So I'd chain him down in the brig, naked so he can't hide anything on his person. Oh, don't get me wrong, the boys would still have their way with him - and I know some of them are only _decent_ to him because you're here, so you might imagine what would happen if you're not. And if I want him? Well, Boone, just picture what he looked like in the brothel, hands tied, chained to a bed, except this time it's my bed. And then, first chance I get, I'd sell him. Recoup some money. Wonder what weird fucking brothels Russia has. Crosby, you wanna find out?"

"No, sir," Sid whimpered. "Please don't kill him."

"I'm not going to. Not this time. Because I understand, Boone, why you're so upset. I said it before, and I will say it exactly one more time and no more: I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Accept my apology, or come at me again and face the fucking consequences I've outlined today. What do you say?"

"I accept your apology," Boone said, slowly, like he was trying to ensure he didn't misspeak. "And I am also sorry, Captain."

Nick stepped back, then, and Boone audibly sighed in relief. "You're damn lucky, Boone. The only reason I can offer this mercy is because there's no other crew member here. I don't have to make an example out of your insubordination. Trust me when I say I am very glad for that. I truly don't want to have to kill you. Despite what we just went through, here, today, I consider you my friend and a very competent advisor to me. Alright?"

Boone nodded, silently.

"Oh," Nick glanced back at Sid. "I should mention, also, that if you were to die in battle - God forbid - I would ensure Crosby is treated very well in the wake of your death. Anything spoken about here, today, would only be in the case of any attempted mutiny. Clear?"

"Yes."

"Good." Nick turned to go, pausing at Sid's bedside. "Keep me updated on how he's doing, won't you, Boone?"

Sid turned his gaze away from Nick's, scowling, and Boone nodded. "Of course."

The tension in the room ratcheted down significantly once Nick was out the door. Boone wandered over to the bed, touching his neck where the dagger had been. "Fuck. Sorry. How do you feel?"

"How do I feel?" Sid scoffed, coughing at the effort to speak, batting away Boone's hand as he reached for him. "You're going to get yourself killed. What Nick said is literally my worst fucking nightmare, and you - " he paused, another coughing fit.

"I'll go get more water."

"You do that," Sid said, scowling. "And then leave me alone. I don't want to see you right now, Boone. Not for awhile. Your poor choices affect me the _most,_ but you don't seem to care."

"Of course I care - !"

"Could have fooled me." Sid turned away from Boone, as best he could; every movement hurt. "Get me water, opium, _go away,_ and for fuck's sake don't get your stupid ass killed while you're gone."

Boone stood up, feeling numb from the events of the past day; the shock of what the _Capital_ did, nearly getting killed by Nick, and now this. He'd do one better, he decided, if Ryan was willing; send him in with Sid's requested items and leave him well enough alone, as requested.

And go get absolutely shit-faced hammered in the nearest bar. After Sid's water and medicine, that was the first priority.

~~~~~

"Why do you hate him?"

Ryan hadn't really meant to ask; it just sort of blurted out, when he entered the crew quarters and saw Zach bent over his hammock, obviously getting ready for shore leave. Werenski drew back, blinking in surprise at the sudden visitor. "Him?"

"Sid."

"Oh." His tone fell flat, annoyed. _"Him._ Isn't it obvious?"

Ryan threw out his hands in an I-don't-know gesture. "If it was, I wouldn't be asking."

"I know you're stuck down there in the cannons, Murrs, so maybe you never saw the aftermath of our encounters with the _Penguin_. Me? I saw every single casualty that piece of shit inflicted on us." Zach finished counting out coins, stuck them into a pouch. "I'd get to guys like Hartnell, and his brains are splattered on the deck from where Crosby shot him in the head. Bill Karlsson died in my arms, Murrs. I couldn't save him, just a big old hole in his chest, and there I was, covered in blood and trying to reassure this man it was gonna be okay when I knew it wasn't. I _liked_ Bill. A lot. And you have to ask me why I hate him?"

Ryan had never really thought of that - he'd disliked Hartsy, but Wild Bill was always nice to him, although they weren't friends. He thought of the _Blue Jacket_ crew, how somber everyone was after engaging with the _Penguin_. There had usually always been at least one casualty.

"Don't let him die, Zach. Please. I understand your position, but..."

Zach huffed, looking almost insulted. "I'm not going to let him _die._ But I'm not going out of my way to ease his pain or make his life easier, either. You can do it if you want. I won't." He tried to move past Ryan, out the door, looked annoyed when he was stopped. "What, Murrs?"

"Tell me what I can do to...make his life easier."

Zach didn't hide his eye roll. "Get ice and a splint for his knee, although chances are good that he'll be lame no matter what you do. We should just treat him like a horse and shoot him, if you ask me, what good's a whore that can't be on his knees? Anyway, let me know if that knee starts turning any colors like purple or green, and I'll come cut his leg off before he dies from infection. That's about it; can I go now?"

Ryan moved to the side to allow Zach to pass, watching the surgeon go in dismay. Of all the things Sid had gone through, and now he'd be crippled? It didn't seem fair.

"Hell, Ryan, there you are," came a voice behind him, and Boone was in the doorway. He looked pale and pinched, like something had spooked the hell out of him.

"How's Sid?" Ryan asked, immediately, thinking the worst.

"Awake. And I was hoping...you could bring him these." Boone held up a flask, and a glass bottle that Ryan recognized as opium.

"You don't want to...?"

Boone averted his eyes, fidgeting. "Sid doesn't want to see me right now. He's...not happy with me."

Ryan could tell it wasn't the whole story, but he didn't want to push. "I just talked to Z, and maybe you could go see if you can get ice or a splint from shore? Zach says they might help his knee."

"Oh, shit, yeah. Ovechkin can pay for those, too." Boone looked a little relieved, now, to have a job to do. "You'll deliver the water and opium?"

"Absolutely."

Boone finally cracked a smile, even if it looked a little strained. "Thanks, buddy. I owe you one. _Another one."_


	26. Chapter 26

Sid rocked his head back and forth on the pillow, anything to distract himself from the scream bubbling right below the surface. Everything was uncomfortable. More places hurt than he could count. His knee, in particular, was agony, and the brand was a mess of pain. It didn't help, either, that his mind verged on hysterics every time he saw the twisted flesh there, out of the corner of his eye.

If he didn't get opium soon, he was going to go mad.

Finally, the door opened, but it wasn't Boone. "Ryan," he moaned, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Can you find Boone and - "

"I've got them." Ryan held up the flask and bottle, and Sid could have cried in relief. He made an impatient whimper, which propelled Ryan towards the bed.

"Opium first," Sid begged, allowing Ryan to take off the stopper - his hands, shaking, wouldn't have been able to - and then drinking straight from the bottle, two long swigs before Ryan gently pulled the bottle from his mouth.

"You can overdose on that, you know," he said, a gentle scolding without any real bite behind it. "Here, take this instead." He replaced the opium with water, and Sid chugged it down, feeling parched.

"Thank you," he sighed, once he was done drinking. "Are you going to stay?"

"Do you want me to?"

Sid didn't hesitate, nodding firmly. "Yes. Please. I sent Boone away, but that doesn't mean I want to be alone. I, uh." He averted his eyes, looking a little embarrassed. "I can't. I mean, I need to pee, and, well."

"Oh. Well, yeah."

"Do you mind? I'm sorry - "

"Hey, don't apologize. It's no big deal." Instead of trying to have him stand, Ryan simply grabbed the chamber pot, setting it in front of the bed and helping Sid swing his legs to the floor so he could pee. He muttered a quick curse when he caught sight of Sid's knee. Amidst the welts and scratches on his thighs and calves, one knee was noticeably swollen, like he had two kneecaps shoved in the same spot. The skin was stretched and swollen.

Sid couldn't finish peeing fast enough, allowing himself to topple backwards as soon as he was done, exhausted from the effort of keeping himself upright. Ryan pushed the pot back to the corner and helped maneuver his legs back onto the bed. "Boone's getting ice, and a splint. For your knee," he said.

"Werenski didn't want to spare it, huh?" Sid let out a slow hiss as he relaxed. The pain was dulling, slowly, far too slowly for his liking, but the agony that threatened to have him screaming was no longer simmering just under the surface.

"You guessed it." He sat, when Sid indicated for it, gently perched on the edge of the bed, trying not to jostle it too much.

"I've seen a few boys break their knees. They never come away unscathed. A limp at best. At worst..." Sid trailed off, shaking his head. "Ryan, I'm gonna be a miserable son of a bitch these next few...days, weeks, fuck, I don't know. You may want some booze if you're going to put up with me."

"Oh, I don't mind - "

"Ryan." Sid rolled his head to stare at him. "Please go get some booze."

Ryan headed back to his quarters, picking up one of the bottles of rum he'd been saving since the Caribbean, well-hidden from the boys. When he returned, Sid had his fingers dug under the black collar around his neck, was gasping for air. Ryan hurried to his bedside, setting the rum on the floor. "Sid? Are you okay?"

"Can't - hard to breathe." Ryan reached for the clasp, to take it off, but Sid shook his head, and there were tears in his eyes now. "Have to keep it on, or else - " He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, and Ryan gently pushed away his hands and unclasped the collar, to Sid's protests.

"Just for a minute," he soothed. "Nobody will know it's off. Hey, it's alright."

Sid was still hyperventilating, a little bit, and he shook his head at Ryan's words, face crumpling, then burst into tears. "Oh, no," Ryan said, grabbing him in a gentle hug, letting Sid burrow his face into his neck and cry. "Hey, you're safe now. I'm here. Boone's out there too, watching out for you."

"Sorry," Sid said, when he'd cried himself out, slumping back on the pillow. His voice was low, rough with the tears, and his face was red and wet, even as he wiped with the back of his hand. "It's just...the _Capital_...it's still out there. Right down the dock. The ship is half-manned, guys out on shore. What if Ovechkin - "

"He won't."

"But it would be so easy to - "

Ryan brushed an errant strand of hair from Sid's forehead. "You didn't hear Foligno when we stormed the ship. He was _furious._ There's going to be a war if Ovechkin tries anything, and he doesn't seem to me to be the type that engages in battles he's not fully sure that he'll win."

"You stormed the ship? The _Capital?_ With who?"

"Oh - right, you were passed out." Ryan ticked off the names - himself, Boone, Seth, Cam, Josh, Brandon. Sid reared back in shock at the last name.

"Dubinsky? Came to rescue me?"

"Yes, but I did overhear him say he doesn't give a shit about you, but he does care about Boone. Besides, you know he's always looking for a fight."

"Well. That makes a lot more sense," Sid muttered. "I can't believe - storming _that_ ship? Really? With how dangerous it was?"

"Boone wasn't going to let you get hurt without a fight."

If anything, that made Sid look even more upset. "Of course," he said, scowling, and making a grab for the collar that Ryan was still holding. "Can you put that back on?"

Ryan frowned as he fastened it back around Sid's neck. "What is this?" 

Sid looked dour as it was refastened. "Punishment," he said, simply, and Ryan got the distinct impression he didn't want to talk about it any more.

"Haven't you gotten enough of that?"

"You'd think." Sid shook his head, blinking away fresh tears. "Just...look at me, Ryan. New scars, everywhere...this...this fucking _brand_ that will never go away. It's all you can see, when you look at me, isn't it? That’s not even mentioning this damn collar. And I'm going to be a cripple, on top of all that. You might as well send me back, so they can finish the job and kill me."

Instead of saying anything, Ryan held out the bottle of rum, which Sid took, gratefully, taking two long drinks and then coughing, his throat still raw from screaming.

"I don't want Boone to see me like this," Sid continued, voice dropped down to a murmur. "But it can't be escaped, my knee, the brand, and some of these cuts will scar. Every time he touches me...every time he runs his fingers over a patch of twisted flesh...I'll think about how I got these."

Ryan took a drink, silent for a moment, obviously thinking. Then, he moved the covers back and gently touched the curved scar on Sid's stomach. "But you're proud of some of these, aren't you? Like this one."

"Well, _that_ one was received in battle. While I was doing my duty to my country. This isn't one to be ashamed of."

"So why are the others?"

Sid huffed, glancing down, cataloguing the wounds that would need to be re-cleaned later, those that were deep enough to likely scar. "These are just a reminder that my body is not mine anymore. That someone _owns_ me. That they can do whatever they want to me."

"But they are scars of duty, too. Don't you see?" From Sid's skeptical expression, it was clear he did not. "Sid, why does Ovechkin hate you? Why is Foligno still so eager to prove his worth above yours? It's because you did your duty, and did it well. You hunted them, killed their crews, disrupted their business. You received those scars because you're a pirate hunter. And yes, you're being punished for it, now...but those are as much scars of _duty_ as this one." He indicated Sid's stomach, again.

Sid's eyes went wide. "Never really...thought about it that way."

"I know you'll never love these scars. But Ovechkin hates you so much that he was willing to practically start a ship-to-ship war to get revenge on you. Foligno _drew_ on him, and it nearly came to a duel. Can you imagine? Because you screwed over the _Capital_ so badly in the past, he put himself into danger." Ryan offered the rum again, but Sid shook his head _no_ , eyes half-lidded at this point.

"Suppose so. Thanks, Ryan. That makes me feel a little better."

"Good." Ryan pulled the covers back up. "You should sleep a little, before dinner. I'll make sure you're awake to get some."

"Don't you have shore leave?" Sid mumbled, sleepy now from the opium.

"All the assholes are off this ship drinking and whoring on shore, which means they're not being assholes to me. That's as good a shore leave as any."

"Stay, then." Sid patted the spot next to him, where Boone usually slept.

"You're sure?"

"Stay."

Ryan couldn't say no to the request; Sid was already asleep as he gingerly crawled into bed, trying not to shake it too much. He just hoped Boone would not be too upset, to see Ryan in his bed, next to Sid.

~~~~~

Opium dreams were terrible and vivid.

Sid saw himself cradled in Ryan's arms, crying; Boone was dead, and although his dream made the death _honorable,_ dying in battle, he was still terrified, still devastated. When he tried to go back to his room, Jack Johnson opened the door, looking confused at the intrusion. Sid's new quarters were with Foligno.

Images and scenes flitted in and out, in no discernible chronological order. There was a scene where Nick, annoyed at the _Capital_ brand, strike-branded his own logo right next to it while three crew members held Sid down as he screamed. Sid's knee caught infection, and Werenski had to cut his leg off, not being quick about it, just alcohol used for painkiller. The prosthetic was wooden and unwieldy; he took it off to get on his knees, which he did a lot of, for Foligno. The feeling of violation he felt when Nick came inside him in his dreams - something he didn't do with Boone in the picture - was so real that he woke up, stomach churning sickly.

"I was just about to wake you," Ryan was standing over him, and Sid saw then that he had a block of slowly-melting ice, was wrapping it in a shirt.

"Frozen water?" Sid's dream was momentarily forgotten about. He'd seen plenty of ice, but rarely inside a ship.

"It'll help heal your knee. Going to be cold, though. And this," Ryan indicated a strange, leather item, looking like a long, thin corset. "Knee splint. We wrap your leg up so you can't bend your knee. Supposed to help. Also, I have broth. You need to eat." He handed Sid a bowl full of cloudy liquid, then gingerly moved the covers back, placed the ice block gently on Sid's knee, helping keep it steady. Sid couldn't help the whimper of pain at the light touch, even through the opium. The shirt dulled the coldness, but only for a few seconds; his knee quickly became chilled, then numb. It was better than the pain, though. He took a sip of the broth.

"Thanks," Sid mumbled, the dream - _nightmare_ \- back fresh on his mind.

"Boone found these for you," Ryan explained, slowly. "He's really...distraught. He dropped the items off, but left as soon as you began stirring."

"You're curious to what happened, between us." It was more of a statement than a question, and Ryan nodded, curtly. "Well, Boone nearly got himself killed. First, I assume, it was dangerous to rescue me, which - thank you, I _do_ appreciate it, but - dumb. Ovechkin claimed he was pretty much done with me anyway, so I'm not even sure if you did anything but put yourself into danger and make Boone feel like he was actually doing something. Then, I woke up here, and Boone and Foligno were arguing, and." Sid swallowed, feeling ill as he remembered the scene. "Boone looked like he was going to draw on Nick during a particularly heated argument. I don't know if he _was,_ but - if I was captain, I would have assumed it, based on his mannerisms, his aggressive tone, the way he reached back towards his sword. Nick offered mercy, thank God, but described in explicit detail what would happen to Boone and myself if that was ever attempted again."

Ryan looked horrified. "What did he say?"

"Flogging, hanging for Boone. Being sold to some Russian whorehouse for me. And then Nick tells him, 'oh, but if you die in service to me, Crosby will be taken care of' or something, and I guess...my brain is holding onto those words. I keep dreaming...keep having _nightmares_ about it."

"Taken care of." Ryan scrunched up his nose. "What does that even mean?"

"In my nightmare, Boone was dead, died in some battle, and they had to amputate my leg. Nick took me for his own, like these last few weeks; he seemed to take a liking to having his own personal slave, so I think that might be likely, in real life. I served him, not the crew. He would give me out for a reward, sometimes, but mostly I was devoted to him, since Boone was out of the picture." Sid chewed on his lower lip for a moment, thoughtful, taking another long drink of the broth. "You'd think, maybe that would be better, serving just one man instead of a shipful of them, right? And in a way, it was. But I realize, now; if Boone dies, if that nightmare comes to pass, then I don't just lose Boone. I lose you, too. I lose the slim glimmer of hope that maybe something about this life is going to change. I lose _everything,_ Ryan. And here Boone is, acting like he can throw his life away in some ridiculous, fruitless gesture of love, like his death wouldn't ruin my fucking life."

"He just wants to protect you - "

"I don't need him to protect me," Sid complained, aware of the bitter note in his voice. "He _can't_ protect me, not the way he wants to. I need him to fucking stay alive. That's the best way he can protect me."

Ryan took the ice off his knee, inspected the joint, the shirt wrapping the ice block cold and wet, now. "D'you want - ...I could talk to him?"

"No, I should be the one to talk to him," Sid sighed, idly rubbing Ryan's leg. "I want you here with me, if that's...if that's still okay?"

"More than okay." Ryan set aside the ice in favor of the knee brace. "I should put this on, but...it's going to mean some jostling."

"I'll try not to punch you," Sid said, half-joking, half-earnest. He finished off the broth and set it aside, afraid he’d pour the stuff over Ryan’s head if he didn’t.

It was agony, as Ryan shifted his leg to get the brace wrapped around it, bad enough that Sid had to sit on his hands to ensure he didn't lash out. He helped where he could, moving his leg as instructed through the fog of pain. The brace was stiff leather that went from calf to thigh, tied tight in front like a corset, preventing any knee bend at all. Once braced, the ice was set back on top.

"No more opium," Ryan told him through Sid's begging. "My father had a crew member that took too much. When he woke up, it was like he was a child. No memory, no higher understanding anymore. We had to leave him in an asylum at the next port. You'll get more soon, okay?"

Sid bit back every foul insult and curse word that was simmering right below the surface and just nodded, curtly. It took a long, long few minutes before he was calm enough to say anything further. "Thanks. Just...hurts. And I'm afraid my leg will get cut off. The nightmare - "

" - wasn't real," Ryan finished. "We'll make sure it doesn't get infected."

Sid sighed, indicated the spot next to him. "Come. Hold me?"

Ryan moved gingerly into the spot beside him, letting Sid fall back against him, head resting on Ryan's chest. Both men were half-asleep, the silence comfortable, when there was a loud squawk outside the room and the door burst open, Stinger whistling on Dubinsky's shoulder.

Brandon grunted, annoyed, at the sight of Ryan, heading over to his side of the room and starting to strip out of his clothes. Blood-stained, Sid noted, and Brandon had a few fresh bruises on his knuckles and face. Some sort of bar fight, most likely. "Don't get too turned on now, boys, with me half naked over here," Brandon smirked as he scrounged for a fresh - well, _less dirty_ \- shirt. "Crosby, how's that knee? Is Ryan over there gonna have to take over for you? You're _welcome_ , by the way."

"For?"

"I fucking rescued you, didn't I?"

Sid glanced down at the brand on his chest, the fresh wounds. He bit down a sarcastic comment about the effectiveness of the rescue. "Right, yes. Thank you." 

"Damn straight," Brandon nodded, finally finding a new shirt and yanking it on as Stinger flitted about. He glanced over at the bed again, and paused, suspicion washing over his features. "What the fuck are you - ...are you two _cuddling?_ Is this something Boone should know about?"

"We're just friends," Ryan muttered, but Brandon ignored him, stepped forward, addressing Sid.

"Bet you're excited to find someone on board that'll _take it_ besides you, eh, Crosby? Gotta mix it up sometimes, right? Better be careful, though, this little hen-heart will steal that whore collar right off your neck, I bet."

Sid snorted, his tolerance for acting demure and submissive on a very short leash, today. "Get the fuck out of here, Dubinsky."

Brandon looked shocked, then narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Some fucking gratitude right here. This shit, between you two, it better not be a _thing,"_ he warned. "If you hurt Boone, I'll cut off every single one of your limbs and string your torso up the yardarm."

Silence from the bed, just a grunt of acknowledgement from Sid, Ryan looking anywhere but Dubinsky. Brandon stared between the two men until he was satisfied, then stalked back out the door.

Ryan slumped down in relief, breath whooshing out of him from where he'd held it. "Asshole," he snarled.

"Mmhmm." Sid peeked up, over his shoulder, to look at Ryan. "But what he said. You don't actually want to take it, do you?"

"Huh?" Ryan laughed, too high-pitched. "What? Me? Oh, naw. No."

"Because you know that nothing we do ever leaves the room. Everything stays between us." Sid slipped his fingers through Ryan's, lacing their hands together. "I would be happy to, when I'm back on my feet. I would _love_ to give you anything you want, Ryan. Do you know how long it's been, since I've been the one on top? Don't hold out on me, now, if it's true."

Ryan slumped down a little, scrubbing his free hand over his face. "Well, I, uh. I mean, I guess. Yes. Not that I don't _like_ giving it, but...I like both, you know? I've never told anyone, but there's plenty of assumptions going around. You heard Dubi. And - well, you obviously know the status conferred to you if you take it instead of give. Shit, maybe it's obvious. I mean, my father being willing to sell me to save merchandise was...not particularly a surprise. Somehow, he knew, too."

"Don't let Dubinsky get to you." Sid squeezed Ryan's hand, a ghost of a smile on his face, sleepy again. "Man, I could have been fucking you for _months_ , Ry. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I - ..." Ryan didn't have a good answer for it, and Sid sighed, frustrated.

"I wish that man that took care of you-know-who came out more often," he said, referencing David Savard's untimely end. "The one that isn't afraid to go after what he wants. I know he's in there. If you can do _that_ to your crew mate...for me, someone you barely knew at the time...yet, you're afraid to tell me your desires in bed. I'm the ship whore, Ryan. Of all people on board you can tell - "

Ryan had grimaced at the word _whore,_ holding up a hand. "I get it. I...I dunno. It's just, everyone looks at you as lesser, if you..."

_"I_ take it," Sid interrupted. "Do you think I'm a lesser man for doing so?"

"God, no." Ryan looked horrified. "But you. Well, you _have_ to."

Sid gestured for Ryan to lean close, whispering as if he was stating a big secret. "If Boone and I had met under different circumstances, I'd still be taking it, I assure you. I _like_ it." Ryan said nothing, just blushed a little, and Sid bit back a sigh. He really wanted to see this kid's confidence up, but just didn't quite know how to get him there. "Anyway. We have a lot to make up for after I'm out of this brace, don't you think?"

"Uh - " Ryan was still blushing, but offered a small, goofy smile at the question. "Just work on getting better, yeah?"

"Well, I've _gotta,_ cause I can't wait to fuck you." Sid let Ryan stutter, for a moment, before cutting him off. "Look, I'm sleepy again. But if Boone comes back...tell him to stay. I need to make sure he doesn't get his dumb ass killed. And if Dubinsky comes back, tell him to fuck off for me. Seriously. I know you've got it in you."

Ryan laughed at that, skeptically. "Yeah, maybe. Sleep, Sid."

Sid sighed as he fell back against Ryan's chest, hearing the whoosh of air, rocked by the rise-and-fall of his slow breathing. Ryan had greatness inside him, he knew, _boldness_ , and as a captain, it had always been Sid's job to wrench that out of his crew, make them be the best versions of themselves. He could do that now, with Ryan - if he could just figure out what was holding him back.

_Soon,_ he thought to himself, as Ryan started carding his fingers through his hair. Once he was off the opium, which dulled his pain, but all his other senses, as well, it would be his mission. "Sleep," Ryan murmured, again, kissing his temple, and Sid resisted, a moment, wondering what fresh nightmares might await him, but the void was deep and black and he couldn't help but go down into it.


	27. Chapter 27

_Sssssiiiiddd..._

Sidney Crosby, captain of the _Penguin,_ was sitting at his desk, mapping out a route back home when the voice came drifting through his cabin like the wind gently ruffling the sails. He sat up straighter, cocking his head to the side, listening to see if it would come again. Was someone on deck calling his name?

_Sidney..._

There it was again, soft and ethereal but as real as sand sifting through his fingers. He stood, making a grab for his tricorne, intent to head up to deck to figure out the source of the sound, when suddenly he was blasted off his feet. His papers scattered to the floor, curling and bouncing, and the desk followed soon after with a wooden _thunk._ Everything was being turned upside down.

The bright light filtering into his cabin's windows darkened, and then the windows shattered as a huge tentacle, dark and oily looking, shot into the room. _A Kraken?!_ Sid had always been sure those beasts had been legend, but here it was, it could be nothing else. The tentacle seemed to be searching, slithering around the room, and Sid got to his feet, hurdling over the thick appendage on his way to the door. And still the voice called again, this time, with greater urgency:

_Sid. Sid!_

Was it the Kraken that was speaking? He was tempted to dismiss that as impossible, but hell, he'd always through Krakens were impossible, as well. If the beast was calling to him, he had to get on deck, had to answer, to stop it from destroying his ship. He'd just reached the door, but the second his finger touched the handle, something slimy had wrapped itself firmly around his ankle. He looked down to see a tentacle, suckers waving, and was yanked off his feet, heading for the shattered window. His heart dropped at the sight of the gaping hole in the glass, the ocean below, the heavy body of the beast. Everything was shaking, and he was dragged down, down into the ocean - 

Sid woke up gasping at the wet washcloth swiping along his wounds, swinging a defensive arm out and striking something solid. "Hey!" Boone yelped, grabbing his wrist. "Sid, relax! It's me, it's me."

"Boone," he gasped, then sank back down into the bed with a groan. He'd startled upwards, and his core and abs were unhappy at the movement; they groaned in protest. It felt like they'd been caned, as well, for how much they hurt. "You're here." He didn't see Ryan, anywhere, only Boone. The light streaming in the porthole was thin, but whether it was brightening in the morning sun or darkening for the evening sky, he couldn't tell. He had no idea how long he'd been out.

"I'm here." Boone sounded quiet, shamed, like he was a scolded puppy, unsure if he was going to be kicked. He smelled like alcohol, although he looked sober, for the moment. He carefully went back to washing Sid's wounds out with the wet cloth.

Sid took note of his body as Boone gently scrubbed it clean. Everything still hurt, although in certain places the pain had dulled to a heavy, constant thrum instead of a scream. Not his knee, however; it was still agony. "Can I have more opium?"

"Yes, but then you need to eat. Here, I brought you something. From shore." Boone handed over the opium bottle, then picked up a bowl and presented it.

Sid took a long drink from the bottle, peeking into the bowl and the viscous, white liquid therein. "Uh. What is it?"

"Well, it's like...a porridge. And a kind of milk-cheese stuff? I mean, it's good! I think - I hope you'll like it. They call it...ah, fuck... _skyr...hra...ring...jur."_

"That's not how it's pronounced at all, is it?"

"Nope," Boone replied, smiling gently. He set aside the washcloth and dipped a spoon into the liquid. "Probably not even close. But try it?"

Sid sat up with Boone's help, propped against the pillow, and snorted when Boone held up a spoonful. "You don't need to feed me." Boone looked a little hurt, and Sid just sighed, dramatically, and opened his mouth for the food. He swished the concoction in his mouth. It was mildly sour and had a full dairy flavor.

"S'like yogurt," Sid mumbled, opening his mouth for another bite.

"A what?"

"Yogurt. It's..." Sid realized he didn't really have any good words to describe yogurt to someone who'd never eaten the stuff before. At least not at this moment; his brain wasn't really working.

Boone waited for him to finish, but when no finished thought was forthcoming, started to talk again. He spoke too fast, like he was trying to pretend everything was normal, forced cheerfulness. "I wish you could see this place, Sid," he said, feeding him another spoonful. "If it's anything like Russia, wow, our lives are going to be very different from the Caribbean. They eat seal here! Have you ever had seal?"

"Can't say I have."

"It's like...fishy? But not?"

Despite the pain in his core that punched every time he moved, and despite his continued annoyance at Boone, Sid chuckled. "That doesn't make any sense. You can't say something's like fish but then not like fish. That's not descriptive at all."

"You'll just have to try it yourself." Boone's grin went crooked, then faded, eyes down on the spoon as it headed towards Crosby's mouth. "I mean...I'll try and bring some to you. _...fuck,_ Sid, it's my fault you're not on shore with us." His eyes kept straying to the brand, and Sid pulled his hand up, protectively.

"I know, I know. It's hideous - "

"It's not that. Just. Every time I see it, I'm reminded of what an idiot I am."

"You _are_ an idiot," Sid agreed, before he could stop himself. Boone visibly cringed, staring down at the porridge.

"I know."

"Are you still gonna love me now that I'm a cripple?"

Boone's face crumpled, spoon wavering in the air. "You're not gonna be - "

"I am, Boone. I don't know how bad it's going to be, maybe they'll have to cut my leg off, or maybe I'll just get a bit of a limp. But I know enough to know it'll never be perfect again." Sid grabbed the spoon from Boone's grasp, took a bite on his own while Boone shook his head, distraught. "Thing is, what I'm most upset about isn't even that. It's not the scars, the brand, my knee. You had one moment of dumb emotion, after holding back for _months._ Honestly, the more I think about it, you've been more patient than I really expected. It's not your fault Ovechkin is honorless scum."

That statement earned him a surprised, confused stare from Boone. "So...what...?"

"That you seem to have a death wish." Sid handed the spoon back over and dropped his arm back to the bed. Just holding something up, the muscles in his shoulder working for even half a minute with an item as small as a spoon was uncomfortable, like a burning rope was wrapped around the muscle and squeezing. "That you think it's okay to do dumb shit like storm another pirate ship or _draw against your fucking captain._ You could have been killed ten times these past few days, Boone, and what then? What then?"

"If it means you'll be okay..." Boone held out the spoon for another bite, but Sid knocked it away. Boone watched it clatter across the room, mouth set in a grim line.

"No! If you die, Boone, I won't be okay. I'll never be okay ever again. Do you understand? My life - those moments I don't spend with you, or Ryan - they're tolerable, at best. At worst..." Sid trailed off a moment, shaking his head. "You're the only thing that makes this life worth living, Boone. Yet you act as if dying for love is something _noble,_ not realizing it would produce the exact opposite effect that you want."

Boone was quiet for a moment, eyes wide, deep in thought. "You'd...at least, still have Ryan - "

"Would I?" Sid demanded. "You don't know that. You have no idea what Nick would do, even if you died in service to the _Blue Jacket._ Do you think 'treating me well' would mean freeing me? Because I can guarantee you it does not. No, Boone, do you know what's in my nightmares?" Sid closed his eyes, as if conjuring the thoughts back up. "There's me - and Nick. We're old. Fifty, somewhere abouts, grey hair, and sometimes in these nightmares I have my leg, and sometimes I don't. And I'm wearing his crest, that changes too, sometimes it's on a collar, sometimes it's a tattoo, sometimes it's a brand. But he keeps me, Boone, and there we are, and he's on land, retired from the ship, a wife, kids, and _me,_ his slave. I'm in the kitchen washing dishes, and his wife is knitting, and I can hear him proposition her, but she rebukes him, so then - there he is, right behind me, arms around my waist, telling me to leave the dishes and come with him to bed." Sid popped his eyes back open, stared at Boone. "And I'm not even upset about it, in the nightmare. There's no dread or disappointment. Just acceptance, borne from years and years of giving him whatever he wants."

Boone balked. "In what life is that being treated well? A life of servitude? I don't think he meant..."

"Oh, it's poor treatment for a free man, Boone, I agree with you there. But good treatment for a _slave._ Do you get it now? Do you?"

Boone muttered a curse, the color drained from his face. His swallows were audible, like something thick was caught in his throat, like he'd eaten the entire bowl of yogurt in one spoonful. "You have to stay alive," Sid told him, gently. "If you want to protect me, you have to protect your own life just as fiercely as mine. My life has value only if you keep yours. Okay?"

A tear tracked its way down Boone's cheek, and he nodded, once. Sid finally took pity on him and patted the space next to him. "Oh, come here," he murmured, trying to hide his wince as the bed jostled and shifted while Boone climbed next to him.

"I still love you, y'know," Sid muttered into Boone's temple as the other man gingerly enveloped him into his arms. "Forever. That will never change."

"I love _you_ forever," Boone replied back, with a fierce emphasis, as if needing to convince Sid of that fact. "I'm sorry, Sid, so, _so_ fucking sorry. For everything. For my behavior, Ovechkin, for - "

"Shh. Later." Sid wasn't quite ready to hear Boone's apology, and certainly not ready to forgive; but despite his lingering bitterness, it was nice, being back in Boone's arms. They were heavy and warm and comforting, somehow missing all of the painful cuts on Sid's chest where one arm was draped. Boone's breath came hot and steady against the pulse in his neck, and he ignored the faint ticklish-feeling it brought in favor of the contentment he was sinking into.

There was a commotion outside the door, and Sid groaned, the serenity of the moment interrupted by what he only assumed was Dubinsky, again. Sure enough, Brandon entered a few moments later, but it was what he was dragging that caused Sid's eyes to widen, caused Boone to shoot up into a sitting position. It was a man, wearing colors of the _Capital,_ and he was hogtied, and wet. Soaked, actually, leaving a dark trail of water behind him as he was pulled, the lanterns causing the water to spark and shine every so often. Even from a distance, Sid could see the drag-marks, red and angry and starting to bleed as the skin sheared off from being pulled.

"What's this?" Sid asked, and Boone frowned.

"This is what Nick thought would be an appropriate rerstertution by the _Capital._ It's bullshit, is what it is."

Sid deliberately did not correct the word _restitution,_ squinting in confusion. "I don't understand. An eye for an eye?"

"Basically yes," Brandon told him, seemingly cheerful at the prospect of hurting someone. "But not just one of them! Ovechkin is sending one man for the next three nights, and then he's sending his crew whore because we can't...uh...y'know," he trailed off at Boone's growl. Leaning down, he addressed the bound man on the floor. "They must hate your dumb ass, huh? To get picked as one of the three? What did you do to deserve this shit, idiot? Lucky for you, we're more merciful than you were." He stood back up, rearing back and kicking the man in the ribs, as if mocking his previous statement. There was a hiss of protest, a string of curse words from the prisoner. "Nope, no sweating from us. We dunked him, instead. He's still got a lot of spirit left, though!"

 _Dunking._ Sid almost wished that had been his fate. Still not pleasant, but not nearly as bad as what he went through. The man had been tied to a spar and dunked in the sea until half-drowned, over and over, as many times as the _Blue Jacket_ crew had seen fit. From how sopping he was, that appeared to have been quite a few times.

Sid leaned forward as best he could to get a better view. The pirate's face had jerked up to face him with Dubinsky's kick. He looked awfully familiar from the night spent on the Capital.

Boone noticed, as well. "That's the asshole that carried you up and just... _dropped_ you on deck," Boone growled, addressing Sid. "Wilson, or something."

"Tom. Tom Wilson," Brandon informed them, and promptly gave him another hard boot. "I just wanted to kick his ass, but Jack wanted to fuck him before I smashed his face up. Said he's too pretty to waste. What do you think, Bam Bam, you want in on this shit too?" Dubinsky grabbed ahold of Tom's hair, jerking his features towards the two men on the bed.

"Fuck you," Tom spat, trying to squirm out of Brandon's grip.

"No. Thanks anyway," Boone replied, sounding disappointed to even be asked the question, and Sid felt his grip tighten around him.

"I agree, I think his face _will_ look better covered in blood," Brandon grinned, a wild, terrible smile. "Well, boys, enjoy your night. I'll definitely enjoy mine." He whistled as he dragged Tom back out the door, covering up the pained grunts and growls from the other man, and then the door was swinging closed, the peppy tune fading up the stairs, leaving just the wet streak on the floor, tinged pink in a few spots from the blood.

"He's a real idiot sometimes," Boone murmured, sadly, as Sid flopped back down on his pillow, sucking in a pained breath. "Why the hell would I want to fuck the guys that hurt you? That did _this_ to you? It doesn't make sense."

"To Dubinsky...sex isn't just sex. Sex is violence, power, authority. Not like you." Sid trailed a thumb down his cheek, swiping at his jaw.

"No. I couldn't - " Boone plucked Sid's hand from his face, kissed the palm. "Sex is not revenge. Not to me."

"Mmmhmm." Sid settled back into Boone's arms, feeling sleepy again. "But...still. I'm out of commission and will be for God knows how long. He was pretty good looking, I mean, if you want - "

Boone's gasp sounded scandalized. "Don't even _joke_ about it. I'm not going to wither and die if I don't get off on a regular basis."

"It won't bother me." Sid was surprised to find that was true; sex, he supposed, had become so commoditized in his mind, that he could separate Boone's feelings from his physical actions. It was also a small concession of forgiveness, he supposed, although he wasn't actually ready to say the words yet. "Or a whorehouse - "

"Oh, shut up. I don't care how long." Boone pressed a kiss to Sid's jaw, then his lips, soft, unhurried. "The most important thing is that you're better."

"The boys they send from the _Capital_ are just going to get uglier. Trust me, I know."

 _"Sid,"_ Boone chuffed, but there was fondness in his tone this time. "I'm staying here with you and have no regrets on it. If you'll have me."

"Oh, I'll have you. Forever, right?" Sid tipped his head against Boone's chest, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, losing himself in the rise and fall of his steady breathing, the fresh batch of opium he drank kicking in again.

"Forever. I promise." Boone had grabbed the cloth, had resumed washing out his wounds, gently, almost too gently; Sid fell asleep to the warm trickle of water pooling in his belly button.

~~~~~

Boone had come through with his promise of seal meat, a few days later, although Sid found it impossible to eat more than a single bite. His appetite hadn't returned, and in fact his stomach constantly threatened to rebel against him; he'd managed to keep it tamed for the moment and intended to keep it that way. He stuck with bread and more of the yogurt-porridge for breakfasts, and a broth-like soup with vegetables for dinners. He mostly slept all day, and most nights as well.

As the days passed, the cuts healed. Most of them closed well, but, as Sid suspected, there were a few new scars added to his skin; the deep fork strike Ovechkin had slammed into his shoulder, a jagged knife cut along his chest from Oshie, a few others. The brand began to scab over, and Sid had to keep it wrapped to prevent from picking at it; it had gone from painful to distressingly itchy. He could see the wings sharpening into focus whenever the bandage was removed to clean it. It made him feel queasy.

The agony in his knee had faded, thankfully, especially after Werenski was dragged down to their room by Boone to blood let around his swollen knee. Afterwards, the knee looked a little more normal, just a bit puffier. The pain was still constant without opium, but Boone hadn't lied when he promised as much as Sid needed; he spent his days in a blissful haze of painkillers, his knee in the splint, with as much ice as they could find.

Boone and Ryan had been trading off shifts with him, even as he insisted that he really did not need a 24/7 watch. But, Sid had to admit, it was nice. Ryan was not quite as big or heavy as Boone, but still made a comforting presence when Sid insisted he climb into bed beside him and acquiesce to be used as a pillow or to keep his legs propped up. The pair helped chase the boredom away, and brought him new books.

Sid hadn't seen any of the _Capital_ boys who were traded after that first night, hadn't even seen what had been done to them. He'd heard screaming, once. As far as revenge went, it didn't make him feel much better; there was no way the men who most deserved the punishment would receive it. At least Backstrom, he assumed, would not have been chosen, on account of his medical expertise for the returned crew members.

Ovechkin had passed along his crew whore for the duration of their shore leave, with Sid being out of commission. Sid insisted on meeting her, and so one evening Boone escorted her to their room, holding the door open and being extremely polite and formal in the presence of a lady.

Her name was Lula, and she was young, a teenager for sure. Sid was worried for her, both for her continuing presence on the _Capital_ and her temporary stint on the _Blue Jacket,_ but she seemed happy enough. She had no scars, no black eyes, no burns, just a small ring of teeth marks around her collarbone that was easy enough to recognize as Foligno's handiwork. The marks were soft pink, barely there, almost like they were love nips, instead of the swollen red and purple bruises that Sid typically walked away with. It seemed she had been treated with a far gentler hand than Sid was afforded on board, and he was grateful for it.

She was startled and sad that the _Capital_ crew had wrought Sid's injuries upon him, but assured him that she had not received the same treatment. She'd escaped from a much worse situation, an abusive father who wanted to give her to an even worse prospective husband. On the _Capital,_ she was treated well and even earned a small cut of what they made, and the _Blue Jacket_ crew had been nice enough, as well. After being assured that the temporary trade did not mean any pain or problems for her, Sid kissed her hand goodbye and let her leave. Boone watched her go with some interest.

"You can," Sid told him, again, and there was a slight hesitation this time, but the answer was the same. _No._

The next evening, after Sid had sent Boone away ("You're driving me _mad,"_ Sid had complained, "Go to the tavern, would you already?"), Ryan had joined him in his room. Both of them were reading, comfortably quiet, just the rustle of pages turning. It was getting darker, the words harder to see even in lantern light, so Sid finally set the book aside with a sigh. "Old eyes not what they used to be."

Ryan snickered. _"Old._ Wait - ...how old are you?"

Sid frowned. He wasn't actually 100% sure; the last few years had blended together in a slow mix, days melting into one another. He realized he did not even know the year or date, and realized quickly after that perhaps he did not actually want to know. "Uh, thirty," he guessed. That was probably about right, perhaps just before or after.

"Not that old."

"Old enough." He tucked in against Ryan, feeling him stiffen up a moment, take a deep, nervous breath before relaxing. "Why are you so jittery, these past few days? Are you nervous about the _Capital?"_ Did Ryan know something he did not?

Ryan must have heard the anxiety underlying the question, because he shook his head quickly. "No. Not about them at all. Just, uh...feels...strange? To be here in Boone's bed, with you, when you two are - I know you're still not 100% okay, that you're still annoyed at him."

"We'll be fine," Sid said. "And you should stop worrying about it. I know - " He cut off abruptly; was about to reveal that he knew Ryan had feelings for Boone, thought better of it.

But Ryan wasn't having it. "Know what?"

Sid sighed. Probably best to get it out sooner than later, he figured. "I know...I know you love Boone, Ryan."

Ryan stared at him for a moment, color draining out of his face, before splitting into a nervous grin. "Love him? Ha - oh, Sid - I - that's a good one. You, you're such a jokester, I, oh, you got me."

"I understand why," Sid continued, as if Ryan hadn't protested. "You came on board and he was the one friendly face you saw. Just like me. The one friendly face I had. He's easy to love, I get it." He grabbed Ryan's wrist, circled it with his hand, rubbed his thumb along the rapidly-beating pulse. "And it's okay, you know. I'm not angry."

Ryan was quiet for a long time, staring down at the bed. "How...are you not angry? In what world is this _okay_ with you?"

"The same world that it's okay with Boone that we're fucking."

"Oh Jesus," Ryan muttered. "We don't have to - "

 _"Stop,"_ Sid told him. "You're not going to back out of fucking me, it's the only time besides Boone that I actually have fun. And you're definitely not going to stop me from fucking _you._ We just both happen to love Boone. So I just want to acknowledge that I know it, that it doesn't bother me, that it's no big deal, and enlist you to help me. Help protect him, okay, Ry? He'll listen to you, when he's thinking about doing stupid shit. Help be a friendly, supportive face. His other friends, they...they're not like you."

Ryan finally met his gaze, still looking shocked. "Not like me how?"

"They're selfish. They like Boone well enough, but if something is gonna hurt Boone but they wanna do it, well, they're probably gonna do it anyway. I trust you explicitly not to hurt him, or me, and I want him to know he's got a buddy that has his back at all times. Okay?"

"Uh, yeah. That's me. That _is_ me. Absolutely, Sid. I promise."

Sid offered a brilliant smile. "Good," he said, tugging Ryan down for a kiss. It took a moment, Ryan shy and reluctant after the revelation, but he couldn't resist Sid's mouth forever, opened up to meet Sid's sweeping tongue.

Sid could tell that Ryan was even more jittery than before, couldn't quite sort through his feelings, going from the realization that Sid knew his deepest secret to suddenly engaging him in a deep kiss. But Sid refused to let him go until he felt Ryan relax, go soft and pliant against his body.

"Mmm." Sid broke the kiss off, reluctantly. For the first time since the _Capital,_ he felt the vague stirrings of interest in his belly, his breath a little quicker. There was no way in his current state he'd even be able to offer a handjob, however, and accepting anything from Ryan without reciprocation still felt...off. Instead, he smiled largely at Ryan, kissed his jaw in a friendly manner. "Thanks for staying with me."

"Of course," Ryan breathed, almost a whisper. "Do you want me to read to you, a little?"

"That would be nice."

Sid settled in against Ryan's chest as he gave a quick synopsis of the plot so far, then started reading, slowly. Jane Austen was not normally Sid's favorite, but here in Iceland, there were only so many English-language books to choose from, so they took what they could get. Halfway through the first page, Sid realized with a start that this actually was the _French_ version; Ryan was going slowly because he was having to read the French then translate the words into English for his benefit.

The whole thing made Sid feel exceptionally fond of the younger man, and a bit in awe, followed by a note of sadness. Ryan was so smart, yet here he was, stuck on a pirate ship, loading cannonballs and packing gunpowder.

"Read a few pages in French," Sid told him, and Ryan paused, surprised, but did as requested. Sid knew some French, was able to follow along okay, but mostly he just enjoyed hearing Ryan speak the Romance language, the way his mouth formed the words almost like a native speaker. He read faster, now, not having to translate on the fly, and the words blended together as Sid's eyes drooped closed. He didn't really want to fall asleep, wanted to continue listening to Ryan read aloud, but the poppy tea he'd drank earlier was kicking in, numbing his knee and his brain. He'd slept so much this past week; it was a luxury he would not get again, and so he should nap when he needed to, he knew. Reluctantly, he gave in to it, the soft French words dragging him down to sleep.


	28. Chapter 28

He was still nestled against Ryan a few hours later when someone gently nipped his lower lip and followed with a kiss. Sid groaned; his body protested at being suddenly awake. He popped one eye open to see Boone, eyebrow arched with interest, a grin on his face.

Sid crinkled his nose at the smell of booze. "You drunk?"

"Just a little happy," Boone murmured, quietly, and Sid could tell that was true. He'd seen Boone drunk, and this was not it. But tipsy, yes. He offered a playful smile, the alcohol helping lubricate his relaxed nature. "You conned Murrs into cuddles, eh?"

Sid could tell Ryan was asleep by the soft snoring and deep, even breaths, even without looking behind him. "I wouldn't exactly say _conned,"_ Sid shot back, equally as soft to not wake Ryan, returning the playful grin, his own sleepiness starting to fade.

"Mmm, he does seem like a willing participant," Boone agreed, dipping his head for another kiss. Unlike his other kisses since Sid had returned to the ship injured, which were chaste and gentle and almost apologetic, this one was deep, mouth open and tongue probing. Sid knew Boone's moods practically better than the man himself, so when they broke, he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"You're horny, aren't you? Well, I already told you, with Lula - "

"I already said I wouldn't. Anyway, the captain has her tonight."

"Well, don't look at me," Sid snorted, then paused, glancing behind him. Ryan was still fast asleep, breathing loudly, just below a light snore. The previous kiss and conversation shared with Ryan came back to him, then; perhaps, Sid thought, he could offer a gesture of reconciliation to Boone, and one of thanks to Ryan, with the plan that hatched in his brain. Kill two birds with one stone. "But I _do_ have an idea where you might be able to get some relief."

Boone tilted his head in confusion, obviously not understanding. Sid flicked his chin to indicate Ryan, but Boone just smiled, even more bewildered. "Uh, I don't..."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Sid hissed. "Wake him up like you woke me up."

_"Kiss him?"_

"Yes!" Boone stared at Sid with a dumb, open-mouthed expression, and Sid had to contain an eye roll. "Trust me. I know he'll be into it, absolutely positive he will. Plus..." he gestured to Boone to come closer, so he could murmur in his ear. "I'd find it _really_ fucking hot. And you sort of owe me, eh?" When he pulled back, he could see the dark glaze that always hit Boone's eyes when he was worked up; the alcohol in his veins certainly assisted. He was dragging his eyes down Ryan's body, sizing him up, but this time not as a crew member or teammate.

Sid suppressed a groan of pain as he scooted over to let Boone on the bed, who gingerly crawled between them, making sure not to land on top of Sid as he did so and instead hovering on top of a still-prone Ryan. The jostling was stirring Ryan, though, and he was just cracking his eyes open sleepily when Boone leaned down to kiss him.

Ryan returned the kiss, sleepily content, but his brain seemed to wake up a moment later, realize that whoever on top of him wasn't Sid. His eyes widened and he stared up with the same dumb expression that Boone had before, then whipped his head around to catch Sid's eye, going a shade of red that Sid had only seen on cherries, back in Pittsburgh. "Sid," he blurted out, sounding horrified. "I'm - no, it's not - shit, I'm - "

Sid knew the best way to get Ryan to stop talking when he was spluttering and protesting was to kiss him, which he did. He seemed dazed as the kiss broke, eyes darting from Sid to Boone and back. "I don't understand."

"Well, you're welcome to say no, of course," Sid stroked his fingers down Ryan's arm, soothingly. "But Boone here is, well, he's a little worked up right now. And I can't satisfy those urges. And Boone is probably a little too drunk to find a whorehouse - "

"Am not, just don't want to," Boone interrupted, stubbornly.

" - and Lula is with the captain tonight," Sid continued, as if Boone hadn't spoken. "So I was hoping you could help? Maybe, please? You'd be doing me a big favor."

"Ohhh," Ryan breathed out, blinking up at Boone, eyes wide as saucers. "I, uh...but you two are..."

"We are, and this doesn't change that. This can happen without it affecting me and Boone's relationship. Or me and yours, I hope...?" Sid caught Ryan's eye, offered a small smile. _Your secret is safe with me,_ he wanted to convey, and Ryan seemed to understand, smiling back, even though his smile was stunned and nervous. As far as Boone knew, this was just getting off with a buddy. He owed Ryan this much, to offer this chance of something he'd wanted to do for years. The fact that Sid himself would find it pretty hot was just icing on the cake.

Still, Ryan seemed unsure. "I. I, um. Dunno - "

_"Ryan,"_ Sid growled in what he hoped was a _what-did-we-talk-about-earlier_ voice, the conversation a few days ago with taking charge and being assertive on what he wanted. Sid knew he wanted this, was giving as open of an invite as he knew for Ryan to take it. At the same time, Boone dropped his hips, grinding hard against Ryan, who responded with a shuddering breath, jaw dropping open helplessly.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed out with a hitch, then, a little bit louder : "You're - you're sure? That you're okay with it? Because, uh..."

"Like I said, you'd be doing _me_ a favor."

"Ah," he murmured with a nod and a swallow. "But...Dubinsky?"

Boone snorted. "He's gonna be gone all night. Dead drunk when he left the tavern tonight heading down towards the whorehouse. C'mon, Ry, you wanna? S'cool if you don't."

"I do," Ryan responded, almost a whisper, and Sid grinned. It wasn't quite the bold declaration he wanted to see, but he'd take it.

"Let me get out of your way, boys." Sid's eyes caught of Brandon's bed, and he choked down a mean laugh. "Help me over to Dubinsky's bed, huh?"

With both Boone and Ryan's help, it was an easy journey across the room, even if both men had to practically carry him. His legs felt a little stronger, but his ankles didn't seem to want to set firmly to the ground, and fuck all his knee still hurt to death. Luckily, most of the blood in his body seemed to be throbbing firmly in his groin instead of anywhere else, which was a nice relief. Boone helped him get comfortable before leaning down for another kiss.

"His neck," Sid murmured against Boone's mouth. "Ryan loves it if you nip his collarbone, or suck under his jaw. And grab his hips, fuck, he likes that too. Be good to him, okay?"

"I love you, Sid, forever," Boone replied as an answer before he turned back, sweeping Ryan into his arms. He was gratified to see Boone follow his directions, immediately dipping his head to drag his teeth down Ryan's neck, and was rewarded with a whimper. Ryan tossed his head back, allowing more access to his neck, which Boone immediately took.

"Boone, take his clothes off," Sid told the pair from Brandon's bed. Fuck it, if he couldn't be involved, at least he could direct. He felt a surge of warmth down his gut; it was almost like being in control, something he hadn't been able to do much for a very long time. The sensation was long-missed and intoxicating.

Especially when Boone did as he asked.

Shirt, first; it dropped to the floor with a whisper, and Boone trailed his fingers along Ryan's sides, exploring. Then, trousers. Throughout it all, Ryan stood there flushed and wobbly, pupils blown like he couldn't believe what was happening. He was already achingly hard, Sid noticed, and he'd barely been touched.

"Ryan." He blinked when Sid called his name, as if waking up from a dream, eyes starting to refocus. "Your turn. His clothes, Ryan. ...Boone, you might need to help - "

"Already on it," Boone was already throwing off his boots as Ryan finally seemed to realize that one party was entirely too clothed. He stepped forward to help with the rest, shirt and pants, but 'help' was a loose term, Sid noted. Boone mostly stripped his clothes off himself while Ryan used it as an excuse to touch, fingers on bare skin as it was revealed. Boone was hard, too. Not nearly as frantic and worked up as Ryan, but obviously into it. He looked like he wanted to savor the occasion as he curled his fingers around Ryan's jaw, slowly tilting it up so his mouth hovered next to Boone's. 

"He's fucking hot, isn't he?" Sid asked, watching carefully as they touched.

"Oh, yes," Boone murmured in response to Sid's encouragement, and he brushed his nose against Ryan's and kissed him. The kiss started out chaste and exploratory, but Sid watched it quickly devolve into a messy affair, all pink tongues and accidentally-clicking teeth and heavy breathing. Ryan was moaning, looking like he was coming undone, but then Boone was, too, snagging Ryan's hips and dragging him close. Ryan's cock dragged down Boone's stomach, leaving a slick trail.

If they weren't careful, they were going to pop just kissing, or so it seemed, and Sid would be terribly unsatisfied at that. Despite his body protesting and aching, and with a few stifled huffs of pain, he managed to get his trousers down past his hips; they were becoming uncomfortably tight with the view in front of him. The noise brought a quick glance from Ryan, who's eyes widened in surprise as he broke the kiss to stare, and Boone's gaze quickly followed.

"You like what you see, Sid?" Boone growled, trapping Ryan's cock against his stomach with a flat palm.

"You'd better fucking touch him. Soon."

"I am - !"

_"More."_

"You going to touch yourself, then, too?" Boone asked, but complied with the request, curling his fingers and stroking Ryan in what Sid recognized as a familiar, firm tempo that he'd experienced many times. Ryan seemed to enjoy it, making a sort of noise that would turn him red with embarrassment if he had brain cells to spare for that kind of thing.

"Only if I want to," Sid shot back, enjoying the feeling of control, _I might not be involved directly, but this is my scene, and I'll do what I please._

"And what about me?" Boone pretended to pout, and Ryan roared back to life from his previous boneless, blank-eyed state of ecstasy.

"Boone, I'd _love_ to touch you. God, you don't know how much - " he cut himself off, there, not wanting to further implicate anything, and Sid was thrilled to watch him finally take a charge a bit, pushing Boone over to the bed to sit him down, sinking to his knees in front of him.

It was a terrible angle, Sid mused, from where he was laying, to watch Ryan blowing Boone. All he could see was Ryan's back, his head moving and bobbing and the occasional soft noise, a lip smack or a wet swallow. But Boone...he could see everything from Boone, and he was so expressive, so open, it was like Sid could tell everything that was happening. He'd never really been able to fully watch Boone's face while blowing him, so it was new and intense. Sid watched him grip the sides of the bed until his knuckled whitened; his toes curled, and his mouth moved, like he was praying, but no words coming forth.

Sid would have liked to watch the whole thing, see Boone's cock disappear into Ryan's mouth, but he wasn't about to ask for an angle change, not when Boone was obviously enjoying it so deeply. He finally allowed himself to reach down and give himself a few strokes. He didn't want to come too early, needed to be judicious with his hand.

Boone started squirming, and Sid recognized that face he was making, those little noises in the back of his throat. "Ryan, _stop,"_ he commanded, and Boone shot him a betrayed, wild-eyed look as Ryan pulled off. "You don't get to come yet," he told Boone, then his eyes drifted to Ryan, still on his knees, chin sloppy and wet. "Ry, tell him what you want."

"I..." Ryan paused, lifted his hand to wipe his face.

_"Tell him."_

He lifted his eyes back to Boone's, who was staring down at him, gaze fierce and intense from being yanked back from the edge. "I want you to fuck me, Boone."

Boone seemed stunned by this proclamation, staring dumbly at Ryan for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet Sid's. Sid knew what kind of picture he was probably making as Boone looked at him: limbs splayed limp on Dubinsky's bed, idly stroking himself, and he knew he was red everywhere, red from cuts and bruises but also from the flush that was creeping down his neck, blooming bright on his chest and cheeks. He always got flushed when he was turned on and he was so, so fucking turned on. He shared a quick nod with Boone, granting his blessing and permission, _yes, fuck him, show me,_ and then Boone's startled stillness turned into a whirlwind. He hauled Ryan into his lap, kissing him desperately, reaching back and scrabbling for the satchel hanging on a hook that Sid knew contained the lube. Boone was frustratingly bad at finding the bottle of oil with his face attached to Ryan's, but Sid decided that was an acceptable delay.

"What's that?" Ryan asked when Boone had to finally pull away to uncap the bottle. Both their shoulders were shaking from panting, breath sucked out from the kiss.

"Coconut oil."

"Oh," Ryan looked surprised, glancing back at Sid. "I've always just used spit - ?"

Sid recognized the concerned edge to the question - _have I been doing this wrong, with you?_ So he jumped in, quickly : "No, that's normal. For you, especially - I know you'll take the time to make sure everything is...ready. But not everyone is like that, so sometimes I get myself ready early, at the beginning on the night, with this stuff. You're gonna love it. No pain. It's gonna feel so good, Ryan."

"I'll take care of you," Boone breathed against his mouth; he'd already slicked three fingers, excess oil rolling lazily down to his wrist, the bottle placed on the floor. "Open up for me?"

To make it easier, Ryan shifted from sitting on Boone's lap to laying across it, like he was a naughty child about to be spanked. He spread his legs and tilted his hips upwards, ass jutting out obscenely, and Sid choked a little at the sight. It must have been louder than he'd thought, because Ryan glanced over, and he had a small smile on his face that made Sid's heart leap in his chest. He buried his face in the bed sheets as Boone started to press against him.

"No, Ryan," Sid admonished, gently. "I want to see your face while Boone gets you ready. Please?"

Ryan dragged his head back to face Sid, slowly, his brow furrowed so hard he almost looked angry. Boone's fingers were in him, slick and opening him with slow, messy movements, and Sid could have watched his face forever, his slack-jawed expression of pleasure. "Boone," Ryan growled, tangled and raw, after a few failed attempts at talking, "Faster. _Please."_

Sid's dick twitched treacherously at his keening whine when Boone did as asked, and he was grinding against Boone's lap now, rutting urgently, looking like he was close just from the finger-fucking. "That's enough," Sid warned, causing both men to look up at him in surprise. "Now you're the one that's going to come too early," Sid told Ryan. "I want you to come while Boone's fucking you. I know you want that, too."

"Please," Ryan confirmed with a nod. "Yes, God yes. I'm ready."

"On your back," Sid decided for them, and Ryan moved to obey, Boone crawling on top a moment later, caging Ryan in by his arms, pinning him down. Ryan yanked him down for a kiss, with Boone grinding in the cleft of his ass, grabbing his hips hard enough that Sid could see the flesh whiten from his vantage point. Ryan pulled his legs up to his stomach, and Boone took the invitation, breaking the kiss and pulling one hand down to guide himself in. "Slow," Sid murmured, wanting to extend it out, but Ryan shook his head savagely.

"No," Ryan hissed, eyes flickering from Sid and then back to Boone, and again. _"No,_ not slow! Fuck slow! Fuck _me,"_ he groaned, and Sid watched as Boone's obedience to _slow_ disintegrated, replaced by a familiar fierceness, a need that Sid had seen many times before. Boone snapped his hips forward so hard that Ryan shifted upwards a few inches on the bed as he bottomed out, withdrawing briefly just to do it again, and again, until it looked like Ryan was going to smack the top of his head into the wall from the force of it. Ryan babbled nonsense, looking utterly debauched, as Boone bit a line of marks down his collarbone. Sid wasn't sure what he found hotter : Ryan finally demanding what he wanted, or the sounds he was making, or watching Boone wreck him with a punishing tempo that Sid normally couldn't take with how sore he often was.

Ryan was stroking himself now, and Sid matched the pace, bordering on frantic. "How is he, Boone?" Sid purred, and Boone dragged his gaze away from Ryan to meet Sid's eyes.

"Amazing," he breathed out, but he didn't stop looking, staring, at Sid, like it wasn't Ryan underneath him. Boone was starting to make _those noises_ again, and combined with his intense stare, and Sid's own hand, and Ryan whimpering brokenly as he came, Sid was coming too, biting back a low groan at the fresh wave of pain mixed in with the pleasure.

He'd tipped his eyes closed until he finished, and when he looked back, Boone had pulled out, was jerking himself off on top of Ryan's stomach to join the sticky mess already there. "Yes, yes, fuck yes," he chanted like a mantra, tossing his head back as he came, his bared neck shining with sweat.

Sid watched an opaque droplet of white roll sideways off his belly, onto Dubinsky's bed, and smashed it into the fabric. _Fuck you, Brandon._

There was suddenly a shadow looming overhead, and Boone had the water cloth, was wiping his stomach down, leaving a damp, cold streak. Sid's ticklish snort was swallowed by Boone's mouth, a hard, hungry kiss. "I wish that had been you," he whispered, low enough that Ryan couldn't hear.

"Me too. You did so good for him, Boone," Sid murmured back. He was rewarded with a brilliant smile, and Boone helped pull his trousers back up, then lifted him off Brandon's bed. Instead of trying fruitlessly to help him walk, he simply picked Sid up with a grunt, shuffling over to their bed and gently setting him back down, and passed the water cloth to Ryan to clean up.

Sid was just accepting another kiss from Boone when the bed shook hard; Ryan was sliding to the floor, off the end of the bed, starting to gather his clothes. Sid and Boone shared a look. "Running off so soon?" Sid asked.

"Oh - well, uh," Ryan's face disappeared and muffled for a moment as he slid his shirt back on. "It's just, your roommate, I know he's gone all night, but he _will_ be back, and we shouldn't - I shouldn't..."

Boone frowned. "You're worried about Dubi?"

Ryan didn't look like he was going to answer, busying himself with pulling on his pants, so Sid placed a gentle hand on Boone's arm. "He hasn't exactly been...the nicest...while Ryan's in here."

"What? He still - ?" Boone sighed in bitter frustration. "We've talked about this before."

"Yes, and I appreciate it," Ryan said. "So he mostly ignores me now, but here I am, in his room, and so - hey...?" Boone had started steering Ryan gently back towards the bed.

"Come back to bed," Sid grabbed his wrist as he got close. "Fuck Dubinsky. Keep your clothes on if you absolutely _must,_ but don't let him drive you away. Unless you want to go, of course."

"No, I...I don't. At all."

"Well then," Sid patted the spot next to him, and Ryan gingerly got back on the bed, trying not to jostle too much. He tugged on Ryan's shirt, and the other man got the hint, leaning down for a slow kiss. They kissed until Boone exhaled hard next to them, having taken up the spot on the other side of Sid.

"Keep doing that," he warned, as their kiss broke. "And I could go again."

Sid groaned playfully, pushing Boone's shoulder. "You could _always_ go again."

"Hell yeah. Short nap, and then maybe I blow you?" Boone's voice dropped, glancing up at Ryan. "Maybe Ryan helps too?"

Ryan looked startled, but started to smile. "I would love to get you off, Sid."

"Stop," Sid held up his hands, laughing quietly. "You're both going to get worked up again, and somebody needs to sleep. Mostly me. After more opium?"

"You can't make this too much of a habit," Boone gently admonished, but did grab the bottle for him. "Once we push off, it'll get quite a bit scarcer."

"And until that time, I'm going to positively drown in it," Sid determined, taking a long sip. There was a headache threatening now, and everything still hurt; it was amazing how many muscles you seemed to use when you came. But there was also a deep, heavy satisfaction, gingerly squished between his two favorite people. He wondered, idly, if this was going to be a _thing_ now, the occasional threesome, or if this was just a one-time act while he was out of commission. Boone, he knew, would be unaffected by tonight's events, his devotion unwavering. He'd be equally okay if Sid demanded this never happen again, or if Sid wanted it every night.

But Ryan. He just hoped Ryan wasn't going to be strange about the whole thing, going from confessing his love for Boone to fucking him in a matter of hours. Sid had just wanted to offer Ryan some measure of wish fulfillment, but he could see now where it might cause him some awkwardness. He didn't seem to be out of sorts, now, but orgasms had a funny way of making everything seem fine.

Ryan slid an arm intimately around Sid's waist from one side, Boone squished in and nosing his neck from the other side, and Sid closed his eyes with a sigh. Certainly not _every_ night, but...sometimes, maybe...he could get used to this. He and Boone and Ryan would figure it out, Sid knew.

Later.


	29. Chapter 29

Barely two days after the shoreline of Iceland receded from view, Sid felt like absolute shit.

Not from his injuries sustained on the _Capital;_ those were healing nicely. Most of the cuts were closed. The brand was still an ugly, twisted mess of burnt skin in the vague shape of an eagle, but Sid suspected he'd better get used to it looking like that. Not like his skin was perfect and unblemished before, with the scars from Alex's last encounter sitting on his back. Not like Boone cared; in fact, he had a weird fascination with Sid's scars. But it bothered him.

His knee still ached, and he couldn't walk without a limp - Sid knew it, he just fucking knew it was never going to be right again. But no, that wasn't the cause of his current sickness.

"Told you not to make that a habit." Boone appeared on deck next to him, where Sid was hanging over the rail, looking green.

"Fuck off," he muttered in return. His opium supply had been cut off as soon as they shoved off, and he was irritable, nauseous, and in pain. He knew he'd have to go back to work soon, as well; he was meeting with Nick in just 48 hours' time. Then back to the grind. That didn't help with his moodiness.

"I know that's just the withdrawal sick making you pissy," Boone said, far more cheerfully than he should have. "Do you want me to rub your back?"

Sid made a grunt that approximated a confirmation, and Boone dug his fingers into the muscles above his ribs, causing Sid to melt a little bit, grumpiness dissipating just enough to mumble out a thanks.

Boone gently kissed the nape of his neck, still rubbing. "How's your knee?"

Sid felt himself twist back into bitterness. "I'm going to be a fucking cripple, Boone."

"There hasn't been enough time to say that for sure, and you know it."

"I can _tell,_ something's off. Something's not right. And then I'll be damaged goods, and Foligno's just going to throw me overboard in favor of someone that can actually get on his knees."

Boone grunted. "Now you're just being...melodramatic."

Sid regretted ever teaching that word to Boone. Even if he was right. So he said nothing, in response, even though he still hadn't told Boone he forgave him yet, not out loud. He knew Boone was waiting for it, hoping for it, but in his current state of petty grouchiness he just couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Instead, Boone was the one who spoke next, pulling his hands away from the back rub. "I have something for you."

"Mmm?"

"Well, I don't want to dangle it over the water. Come over here."

Sid dragged himself away from the edge to see Boone yanking something out of his pocket to present to him. He was holding out a trinket box, with intertwined snakes - Sid recognized it as a symbol of love and engagement. "Where did you get this?"

"It's, uh...well, it _was_ Ryan's. But it's yours now," Boone said. "He wanted me to give this to you. He told me to say it was from me, but. I didn't think that was right."

_Ryan._ After Boone's...encounter, with Ryan, Sid had woken up with both of them squished around him. He remembered their conversation, before they'd fallen asleep - both of them promising to help get him off. But when Sid had woken, Dubinsky was in the room, snoring drunkenly, so it hadn't happened. Brandon hadn't breathed a word about seeing the three of them curled in bed together, so either he was too drunk to notice or remember, or perhaps had made a deliberate decision to ignore it.

Either way, the three of them had not had a chance yet to really get together again as Sid continued to heal and both of them worked to restock and get the ship ready for the upcoming trip. Still, the thought of Ryan, giving him what looked to be an important and prized possession, warmed his heart.

"But this, _this_ is from me," Boone said, opening the box. A small wooden carving sat inside, resting on green felt. "It's an Icelandic stave. I bought it on shore. It's supposed to grant you good fortune on the seas. Ward off evil."

"I could have used that on the _Capital."_

"Yeah. That's kind of why I..." He stopped, looking uncomfortable, box wavering in the air; Sid still hadn't accepted it. "I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure nothing like that ever happens again, Sid. But I don't - we don't control our own fates here, in this life. I get that now. So as much as I hate it, I can't make that absolute promise. Sometimes we need all the help we can get, from gods or God or supernatural forces or whatever. It can't hurt, right?"

Sid accepted the box, picking up the carving. It was surprisingly warm, even as the box itself was cold to the touch. He turned the wooden item over in his hand, examining the gashes in the wood that formed the symbol.

"Can I apologize now?" Boone asked, fidgeting. "You said you didn't want me to, earlier - because you weren't ready, but now..."

Sid felt his petty anger crack at Boone's obvious distress, and he sighed, placing the carving back inside the box. "You don't need to apologize, Boone. I forgive you."

"But I do," he insisted, stepping up and grabbing Sid's wrists. "God, I do need to apologize. Like I said, I can't promise much. But I can promise that my actions will never hurt you again. And I'm so, _so_ sorry they did." One hand fell off his wrist to gently touch Sid's shirt, over the scar tissue on his breast, then up and grazed the collar. "These are my fault. It's hard to live with that knowledge. That I hurt you. I promised I'd never - " Boone looked like he was choking up, now, blinking back tears.

"Shh, I don't...don't blame _you_ , for how this ended up. Ovechkin, Foligno, there is a lot of blame to go around. I know, if the situations were reversed, I'd feel just like you. But believe me, I don't hold you culpable." Sid smiled at the confused tilt of Boone's head. "Culpable. At fault. There's your word for the day."

"I am - culpable, though."

"Oh, shut up," Sid reprimanded, and pulled Boone in for a kiss with his free hand, the box still clutched in the other.

"Someday," Boone muttered, almost inaudible, against Sid's mouth once the kiss broke, "Things will be different. I promised, back in that brothel, that you'd be free. Your own, again. I still intend - "

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Boone." Sid frowned at Boone's silent, determined jaw. "Let me amend that: don't do anything stupid, Boone."

"Nothing stupid." He patted Sid's hand, holding the box. "Just keep this safe. I love you. Forever."

"Forever."

"C'mon. If you're done hanging over the railing, you can come lay down, and I'll give you the rest of that massage til you're asleep."

There was still a pit of irritation in Sid's belly, but that went a long way towards taming it. He nodded, allowing Boone to take his hand, pull him towards their room.

~~~~~

"Enter."

Sid took a deep breath, nervous, and slowly opened the door to Foligno's cabin. This would be the first time with Nick after the _Capital._ His knee still wasn't 100%; hell, it might never be again. He remembered his words, to Boone: _Foligno's just going to throw me overboard in favor of someone that can actually get on his knees._ He was being dramatic then, mostly, but there was an appraising look on Nick's face that made him uncomfortable as he limped inside.

"So, the rumors are true." He didn't have to be told that Nick was referring to the limp, still pronounced, even as everything else was mostly healed.

"It's getting better," Sid said, truthfully. And it was: he couldn't even walk before, and the pain wasn't constant anymore, although it was there enough for him to be uncomfortable. 

Nick made a skeptical little _huh_ at that, setting his quill down and swiveling his chair to slide off his boots. He made Sid wait, there, standing by his chair for orders, while he slowly stripped his clothes off until he was left in just long underwear and a flimsy shirt. "If I asked you...'would you kneel'...what would you do?" Nick asked, standing up and moving over to his bed.

Sid took a few steps towards him, tentative. "I would do as you asked. ...of course."

"Sorry, I should rephrase that. _Could_ you kneel, would be the better phrase."

Instead of answering, Sid began to get to his knees - slowly, awkwardly, trying to hold in the cringe. But Nick waved his hand in the air, shaking his head. "Not _there_ , Crosby. Come over here."

Sid walked, to stand in front of Nick, nearly rearing back in shock as Foligno reached over and began shimmying Sid out of his clothes. He'd never _undressed_ Sid before; it had always been a simple demand to get naked. "I hope you see," he said, softly, as he pulled Sid's shirt over his head, "what other pirate captains are like. I hope you... _appreciate_...what you have, now. In me."

"I do, sir," he whispered, watching Nick unbutton his pants.

"And I hope you remember to show that appreciation from now on."

"Just...just tell me what I can do for you, sir."

Nick made another _hmm_ noise, then reached up and touched the brand on Sid's breast. "I'm going to be nice and give you the choice," he said. "Once this is fully healed, I want it gone. We can either cut it until it's scarred over and destroyed, we can brand it with something else, or tattoo over it. You don't need to tell me now. Think about it."

None of those options sounded particularly appealing, but Sid nodded, somber, in agreement. The look on his face must have affected Nick, because he took on a softer expression than Sid had ever seen before and pulled him down onto his lap.

Nick was unusually slow and gentle that night in getting him ready. Sid knew it was his way of apologizing without having to say the words, but he found himself hating it; hated that Nick was pulling a few genuine whimpers out of him as he hit that spot inside with his fingers, hated that he was half-hard from it. Nick's teeth were on his neck, as usual, but this time it was soft, gentle, like the tiny love nips that Lula had received instead of the usual possessive bites. Sid found himself hating that, too.

"Harder," he finally asked, as Nick ran his teeth in a gentle ring along his shoulder, and Foligno reared his head back in surprise and confusion. "Your teeth," Sid clarified, and Nick's gaze darkened into something heavy and aroused.

"You want me to bite you, Crosby?" he asked, breath hot and heavy against Sid's neck. It moved from jaw to collarbone, as if Nick were inspecting the skin, sizing him up, determining where to bite. "Mark you up? Make you mine again?"

_No. Yes. Fuck you._ Sid didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. He just needed Nick to dispose of this affectionate manner he had tonight. It was easier to hate everything when it was rough, bruising teeth and sharp fingernails and slapping skin.

Nick loved the ragged whine he drew from the bite, in the soft area right under the jaw; Sid could tell by the grind of Nick's cock against his thigh, fully hard now. _"Now_ you can get on your knees," he growled.

The bed was certainly softer than the floor as he got on his hands and knees, gave his knee just a little cushion it wouldn't have otherwise had. It still hurt, bad enough that Sid had to stifle a hiss as he settled down, Nick stripping off the rest of his clothes. The first push inside was fine - any groans from Sid would have been drowned out anyway by Nick's pleased, approving noises - but then Nick's hands settled against his hips, and his stomach pressed against Sid's back, grinding him down as he started to move.

Nick was a heavy weight on his back, and Sid vaguely registered that surely, he must be doing this on purpose, to test his limits, see where he'd break. Sid buried his face into the soft silk pillows and tried to turn his cries and whines and _oh fuck, oh God_ s from pain into pleasure, for Nick's benefit.

It couldn't last; the second he pulled his leg backwards, trying to give it just a moment's rest, he collapsed on the bed, Nick falling heavy on top of him with a little _oof._ "Does your knee hurt, Crosby," he asked, barely a question, more like a wry statement. Sid shook his head, _no,_ so Nick poked him in the side. His voice was a little more dangerous when he spoke next. "Are you quite sure about that? I don't like being lied to."

"It hurts, sir," he mumbled into the pillows. "I'm sorry."

Nick pulled out, smacking his ass with a loud _slap_ and a lengthy sigh. "Well, turn over."

There were twin wet spots when Sid pulled his face away from the pillow, where tears had tracked down his face. His knee was throbbing, now, but he kept his expression fairly neutral as Nick pushed back in.

"I want you crying because you're begging for me, not because you're in pain," Nick told him, biting at his mouth. "How does this feel?" He grabbed Sid's leg, hooked it over his shoulder.

It still hurt - but it was tolerable. "Good," Sid agreed.

Nick thrust deep, smirking. "Just good?"

It was easier, here on his back, to push Nick's buttons, without the terrible pressure on his knee. He moaned and panted and _begged_ for it while Nick fucked him - Nick loved to be begged and complimented, and Sid poured it on thick, tonight. Nick pulled out and came on his face, watched with an intense gaze as Sid wiped his palm across his cheek and licked it off. 

It was something he'd never done before, not for Foligno. "Hell," Nick muttered at the sight, sounding aroused again - or perhaps still - and Sid hoped it would cause Nick to forget about his knee. _What good is a whore that can't be on his knees?_ He had to give some reason for Nick not to find him worthless. He dropped his eyes closed with a sigh, not wanting to move quite yet, knowing walking would bring pain.

"I have something for you." The statement caused Sid's eyes to fly open in shock. Nick was standing beside the bed, holding a cane. Canes had been all the rage in America the last time Sid had been on land - maybe they still were - and Nick had quite a collection that he'd brought with him. They mostly hung on the wall, unused, but they seemed to please Nick, so Sid didn't question it, just kept them polished and tidy. This was one of his shabbier ones, but still sturdy and functional.

"I think, deep inside, you're still too goddamn stubborn to be a cripple, Crosby. But you'll need this, for awhile, assuming Zach doesn't just cut that leg off. Don't make me regret giving this to you," Nick told him. "We both know this can be used as a weapon. But I think we also both know I won't hesitate to cut your head off if you get any ideas."

Of that, Sid was quite sure. "I know. Thank you, sir."

"Yes, well. Get dressed. Then take it and get out," Nick huffed, like he was irritated at doing something nice, and that was one command that Sid had no problem obeying.


	30. Chapter 30

The next morning, Sid woke up with some discomfort. Not from his knee - although that didn’t feel great - but for the first time since the _Capital,_ he woke up with a raging case of morning wood.

“Convenient,” he mumbled to himself, stretching, the fresh blood flow not helping things between his thighs. Tonight, he was going to get to spend time with Ryan. Tonight, he was going to get to _fuck somebody_ for the first time in - 

Sid couldn’t remember. It had been prior to his stint in the brothel, which meant it had been years. Not that he hated what he and Boone did, or felt like he was missing anything. He loved being underneath Boone, his heavy weight grinding on top, hitting that spot inside which drove Sid crazy. Nevertheless, it was still an exciting prospect to be the one on top, especially with someone like Ryan, whom he...well. _Loved_ was probably too strong of a word. _Liked immensely,_ perhaps.

He decided, after a long moment’s consideration, not to get himself off. Boone was long gone below deck (Brandon as well, to Sid’s relief) so he was alone. He didn’t want to waste on his hand what he could give to Ryan, later. So he ended up just waiting it out, allowing time to steal away the erection.

Sid was almost ready to roll out of bed when there was a loud _boom._ He resisted the urge to roll his eyes; the _Blue Jacket_ must have found a merchant vessel. This would be their first, after Iceland. Sid wondered what kind it was. Russian? If he remembered his maps correctly, New York wasn’t too far off, and neither was Buffalo. Perhaps one of theirs.

Rolling off the bed, he eased over to the chamberpot to pee, leaving his new cane against the bed. Just as he was finished and buttoning back up, there was another loud boom - then an eerie, whistling rush of air that could be faintly be heard from outside.

Then, the small porthole above where he and Boone slept each night shattered.

Sid let out a curse, the vibrations from the explosion knocking him to the ground, nearly into the chamberpot. He glanced up and saw a cannonball embedded half into the window, the thick glass in shards on their bed. He sent up a quick prayer of thanks that he was not still asleep.

Perhaps it was not a merchant ship.

Sid struggled back to his feet, limping over and grabbing his cane. He debated on what to do - typically, he always stayed here, down below, when they attacked merchant ships. But this seemed like an attack on the _Blue Jacket._ There was another _boom,_ the ship shuddering, and loud yowling, the unmistakable sounds of someone in pain. If the ship was going down, Sid thought, he would not wait down here to die. He threw open the door and made his way slowly up the stairs.

It was chaos, he could already hear, the sounds of pain and yelling and gunfire and a few sword clashes. Sid poked his head above deck, hidden in the stairwell. As he suspected, it was not a merchant ship. The St. Andrew’s flag of the Russian Navy flew almost directly overhead, and with the proximity, Sid realized they were trying to grapple. A few enemy sailors had already made it over onto the _Blue Jacket,_ although they were quickly being dispatched by the pirates.

There was loud cursing coming from behind him. A few crew members were dragging Seth Jones along the deck, leaving a red smear behind him. Sid thought, for a moment, how terrible Seth’s leg must be broken, that he could not even see the calf, that it must be caught under his body - but then Sid realized that the leg below his knee was simply _missing._

Although he tried to stay hidden, Werenski spotted him right away and snapped his fingers. “Get the fuck up here,” he barked, waving his hands at the other crew members. “You, go away, worry about these Russians! _Crosby!”_

“I’m coming,” Sid huffed, moving as fast as his leg would allow. As he got closer, he saw that Seth’s lower leg wasn’t quite gone. There were ugly shards of bone, muscle, and sinew still poking out from the wound. Zach was winding a tourniquet around Seth’s thigh, screwing it down tight with a grimace, already bloody up to his elbows.

“Jonesy, I need you to be still,” Zach said, squeezing Seth’s hand. It was the first time Sid had ever seen the surgeon be tender about anything, but he regarded Seth fondly. “I’ll take care of you.”

_“Fuck,_ Z,” Seth bit, panting for air. “Just be fast.”

Werenski’s soft look vanished as he regarded Sid, the faintly disdainful sneer back on his face. “Hold him down and keep the tourniquet in place,” he instructed, as he pulled out a large knife from his kit.

Sid opted to lay, full-body, on top of Seth while Zach removed the rest of the lower leg, cutting just below the knee. It was like riding a wild horse, Sid figured, not that he had ever done that before. Seth bucked and howled and cried and pleaded. Sid kept his knees dug into Jones’ arms and his hand tight around the tourniquet and soon, it was over; the cutting, at least. Seth’s cries dulled to agonized whimpers as Zach sewed up the wound.

Around them, still, was chaos, but it was readily apparent the _Blue Jacket_ was winning the day. “This is what happens,” Sid heard Nick’s voice, booming over the dying sounds of fighting. He had what appeared to be the Russian first officer in his grasp. He was struggling, throwing curses in a language Sid didn’t understand. “This is what happens when you fuck with us,” he called again, addressing the Russian ship, and Sid saw their captain, staring at the scene with a scowl on his face. Suddenly, a sword burst through the Russian first officer’s chest - Nick had impaled him with a manic grin, tinged with red from a bloody mouth.

The Russian captain snarled, spitting angry words. Sid did not need to know Russian to understand their intent - _fuck you, we’ll kill you._ Suddenly, with a yell of approval from Nick, the _Blue Jacket_ broke away to freedom as the crew managed to snap the Russian grapple.

Sid heard Nick calling to swing the ship around, for Boone to fire, aiming to sink. Zach finished his sewing, pressing a bottle of opium into Sid’s hand.

“Give Jonesy this,” he commanded, narrowing his eyes. “And don’t fucking drink any yourself! I’ll know it if you do!” There were other, injured crew members that he needed to attend to on-deck, and after another quick warning look, he was off running towards them.

Seth was on his back staring up at the sky, eyes glassy, his cries of pain softened to small whimpers and flushed with sweat. “Seth,” Sid murmured, uncapping the opium and holding it up. “Seth, can you sit up a little?”

Seth wiped his face, his upper lip beaded with sweat, and struggled up to his elbows. Sid helped him drink, offered a healthy sip; Jones was a large man, after all. He vaguely heard the sounds of the Russian ship sinking, struggled back to his feet with the help of the cane and turned to look. Boone and Ryan and the cannon crew had done their jobs. Water streamed in through a healthy gash in the side of the Russian ship, and Sid had been on the seas long enough to know there was no coming back from that damage. He heard panic coming from the sinking vessel as men tried to set the ship’s boats in the water; typically used for rowing ashore when unable to dock, they turned now into makeshift liferafts. Hard choices must be made, Sid knew. Not even half the Russian sailors could fit on those boats.

“Sink all their boats but one,” Nick barked. “As for the survivors, let them tell their Navy about us. Let them _know_ who the _Blue Jacket_ is. Hey -...what the...” Nick’s voice was suddenly in his ear, sounding angry, and his cane was kicked to the deck with a clatter. Sid crashed down as well, a second later; he’d been leaning all his weight onto the cane. Seth’s thrashing had taken a toll on his knee.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing up here, Crosby?!” Nick hauled him to his feet, and there was something cold pressed up under his jaw. Sid smelled gunpowder and knew it was Nick’s blunderbuss.

He relaxed as much as he could, within Nick’s bruising grip and with his gun ready to fire in his face. “Helping Werenski, sir. I’m sorry, sir - “

“He helped,” Seth croaked, with a cough. “With my leg.”

“Helping Werenski?” Nick looked down at Seth with a scowl. “Did Z come and get you from your room, then?”

Sid shook his head. _No._

“Oh, you mean your stupid ass was already up on deck when Z told you to help?”

“...yes.”

“That’s what I thought.” Nick shoved his mouth next to Sid’s ear, his breath hot and angry against it. “You come up here _ever again_ during battle and I will kill you. Not with my gun. I’ll skewer you like I did that fucking Russian and imbed the sword into the mast, watch you struggle like a stuck pig until you die. Do you fucking understand?!”

Sid nodded, slowly, keeping his voice soft and calming - he hoped. “Sir. Yes. I understand, sir.” He was shoved back to the deck, then, stumbling and falling again with a wince.

_“Idiot,”_ Nick snarled, savagely, stalking away.

“Sorry,” Seth mumbled. “Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” He had the opium now, uncorked it and took another sip. Sid stared at the bottle - what he wouldn’t give for another drink of it. Instead, he struggled back to his feet and limped back to his room, trying to get the vision of Seth’s missing leg out of his head. He was mostly out of the woods from infection, he believed, but Werenski had remained cagey about information, unwilling to give Sid a firm commitment that he could stop worrying.

_Have Nick kill me if you wish,_ he prayed. _But God, you’ve already taken so much from me. Please don’t take my leg, too. Not like Seth's._

~~~~~

His knees still throbbed and ached that evening, hurting bad enough that Sid knew he would not be able to fuck Ryan. That was alright; Ryan seemed shaken up enough by the day’s events, and he seemed in no mood for intimacy. It seemed the wrong time to bring up the threesome, as well, since the entire left side of his face was bloomed an ugly, jaundice yellow, was starting to turn a garish purple.

As Ryan told it, one of the Russians had gotten down into the cannons and met Ryan with a clean punch to the eye. Boone had tackled him as the Russian began to draw his sword, and they’d dispatched him shortly after with no injuries to the cannon crew.

“It gives you character,” Sid noted with a wry smirk, his knee propped in Ryan’s lap. Outside the brig where the two men relaxed together, there came the occasional hoots and hollers. Nick had allowed additional booze to be opened up, a celebration of sinking a Russian warship, and everyone was partying before long shifts began the next day for ship repairs. Sid didn’t drink rum too often, anymore, but Ryan had brought down a flask, and the alcohol was dulling the pain in his knee a bit.

_“Character,”_ Ryan snorted. “If Boone hadn’t stepped in, I’d be dead.”

“Gotta learn to punch first, Ry. You're not much of a fighter, are you?" Ryan shook his head. "Have you ever even gotten into a fight?" Another head shake. "Shit," Sid muttered, then, louder: "Well, that's going to change. I'm going to teach you how to throw a punch. And take one." _This is it,_ Sid thought. _This is the key to Ryan’s confidence. If he just knew how to defend himself..._

Ryan looked vaguely queasy at the prospect. “I don’t - look, Sid, I don’t know. Maybe I should just get better at _avoiding_ those fights. Anyway, I can sword fight pretty well. It was just a dumb moment, right?”

Sid gently grabbed his wrist. "Do you usually have your cutlass down below decks? No, Ryan. Knowing how to throw a punch won’t just be handy for battles, you know. You spend a lot of your life letting people walk on you. So, if you know how to fight - "

Ryan cut him off with a snort and a wave. “Oh, fighting back when people are jerks. How did that tactic work for you last time? With Nick?” He immediately looked regretful at his words when he saw Sid's stony expression; Sid had told him about his encounter with Foligno, breaking his teapot, standing up for himself. The punch that followed. It was obvious to both that Ryan was referring to that.

There was a long moment of silence while Sid obviously picked out his words. "You're a free man, Ryan," Sid started, through grit teeth. "You have the _right_ to fight back. I do not, unless you’d like to see Foligno hang me? Should I take this off, so you can wear it instead and have submissiveness be your only option?" Sid indicated the collar, and Ryan shook his head, red embarrassment flushing to the tips of his ears. "You're lucky, Ryan. You and I, we were both sold. Unlike me, you retained your freedom...yet, you don't use it."

"I get it," Ryan muttered, head down. "I have something you want, and I waste it. It must drive you crazy."

"It does," Sid replied, knocking his hand against Ryan's chin to bring his gaze back up. "But not for the reasons you think. Sure, I wish I had those freedoms. More than you would know, I wish it. But I'm also sad, that you're so scared."

Ryan bristled a little at _'scared.'_ "I'm not - "

"You are. Unless you enjoy Dubinsky and his likes walking all over you?" Sid shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "Maybe you do. We had two women in my brothel who loved getting whipped, God knows why - "

"That's not it."

"If you don't enjoy it, then, the only other reason you allow it is that you're scared. Scared to change it." Sid carefully studied Ryan's face, his jaw set in resistance.

"I can't change it. It just is what it is. Scared has nothing to do with it."

Sid bit back a sigh, deciding to try a new tactic. "Do you know how men like me, like Nick, become captains? We have to command respect. It's crucial, or there will be a mutiny. And sometimes, respect is earned, through your actions. For you, that tactic has worked with a lot of the men. Calvert, Jones, Atkinson. They like you quite a bit. They _respect_ you, because you've worked your ass off for this crew, you're a competent gunner and a good drinking buddy. But some men? Like Dubinsky? You can be the best at your job, you could save their fucking life, and they won't respect you. There is only one way to earn respect from them. You stand up for yourself. You show them that you will take no shit. With words, sure, but often it won't stop there. Often, you have to..." Sid curled his hands into fists. "And if they still don't respect you after that, well...at least they keep their fucking mouths shut."

Ryan chewed on his thumbnail, nervous. "You'd teach me to box?"

"Yes."

"That means I have to punch you."

"Not as often as you'd think. We start with the basics. How to stand, how to actually throw a punch. Where to aim. How to stay calm." Sid grinned, a crooked smile. "Don't feel too bad. You also need to learn how to take a punch. So I get to hit you back."

Ryan just groaned, burying his head in his hands. Sid shifted over to pull on his hip, tugging Ryan onto his lap, carefully avoiding his knee. "Hey," he murmured, kissing Ryan's exposed jaw until he dropped his hands away from his face. "You'll be so much happier. I promise." Ryan muttered something, unintelligible. "What was that?"

"Fine."

"You'll do it?"

"Yes."

Sid rewarded him with a hard, intense kiss, digging his fingertips into Ryan's ass. "You won't regret it," he murmured between kisses, breath hitching as Ryan started grinding down on his lap. “Did you - did you want…”

“I know, I know. Your knee. But maybe I could...we could...blow each other?”

Sid kissed the side of Ryan’s mouth that wasn’t bruised with a low chuckle. “Never know why you sound so unsure when you suggest that.”

“So is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”


	31. Chapter 31

It was increasingly hard to find time with Ryan in the ensuing weeks after the attack. Satisfaction from the Icelandic brothels were fading fast, winding the crew up again, and the adrenaline still ran high from the defeat of the Russian ship. The boys spent their days working hard to ensure the ship was in top order, and then wanted to _play_ hard at night. Worse, Nick seemed a little more possessive than normal, as if he wanted to remind himself that regardless of Ovechkin’s actions, Crosby belonged to him. And for his free time, it was hard not to spend it with Boone, who was still a little overly-clingy and apologetic.

Finally, there was a poker tournament organized over a few evenings, which kept the attention of most of the crew, Boone and Nick included. Occasionally, Sid could hear a roar from the crew cabin as someone won a particularly large hand or made a good bluff. Sid was left with alone time to teach Ryan how to fight, as much as he hemmed and hawed and tried to avoid it.

It had been slow going. “Jab,” Sid instructed, watching as Ryan lashed out with a low punch. It was a poor one, too low, not enough power, so Sid stepped up and smacked him in the jaw.

“Ow!”

“Keep your punches _up,”_ Sid sighed. “Otherwise you leave that face of yours unprotected for a counter.”

Ryan grumbled, rubbing his chin. “I’m trying to keep my chin pointed down, like you said.”

“Well, do both. Again. And don’t give me that sad face.”

Everything needed work; Ryan was a true beginner. He lifted his hips when he punched. He didn’t follow through with his body...then started following through too much, throwing himself off balance. He kept forgetting to protect his face with his off hand. Slowly but surely, it got better, but not until Ryan had long since disposed of his shirt and trousers, left in only breeches, glistening with sweat in the hot brig.

“That’s enough for tonight, I think,” Sid said, passing over a large flagon of grog, which Ryan gulped down. “You’re getting better.”

“Am I?” Ryan grumbled, wiping the foam from his mouth with a skeptical look.

“I swear! You are. Just...it’s hard, starting from nothing. I mean, most of us who grew up on the seas have a solid base that you don’t. I used to beat the shit out of the other powder boys on the ship all the time. The sailors would organize fights amongst us and would bet on who’d win.”

“And let me guess, you always won?”

“Well.” Sid paused, offering a crooked grin. “Not really, I was never the _best_ fighter. ...but hey, better than you!” he continued at Ryan’s exasperated groan.

“So I’m taking boxing lessons from a guy who’s a terrible boxer?”

“Never said I was terrible. Just not the best.” Sid tracked a bead of sweat that released itself from Ryan’s collarbone, snaking slowly down his chest and into the divot of his belly button. “Well. There is something I _am_ good at, though.”

“What’s that?” Ryan was trying to tamp down his sweat-frizzed hair, not paying attention as Sid stepped up. Only when Sid entered the threshold of his personal space did he seem to notice, eyes going wide. “What - “

Sid dipped his head and sucked at Ryan’s shoulder, the taste of salt. “Ohhh,” Ryan mumbled, bringing his hands up to thread them through Sid’s hair, keeping him pressed close. “But, uh. I’m all sweaty and tired.”

“No sense washing up when we’re both going to get sweaty,” Sid murmured against his shoulder, licking a line up to his ear. “And tired? Well, why don’t you lay back and let me do all the work?”

Ryan drew in a sharp breath. “Do you mean - “

“Can I fuck you?” Sid cut him off with the quiet question and a soft kiss. “A reward, perhaps, for all your hard work?” There came another yell from the crew cabin, a distant, low rumble. “They’re all busy. Nobody’s going to walk in on us.”

Ryan had a hand fisted nervously in Sid’s shirt, pausing for a long moment, but nodding. He looked equal parts eager and tentative, somehow.

“You still want to, yes?” Sid murmured, sucking at the dampness pooling underneath Ryan’s Adam’s apple, then back up to his mouth, lips brushing against his scratchy beard. “I mean, I know you, with Boone…”

Ryan made a soft, earnest noise into the kiss, chuckling. “Oh, do you think now I’ve perhaps had my fill of being on bottom, and so I don’t want you?”

“If you prefer - you know you can always fuck me, Ryan. That’s what I’m here for.”

Ryan was halfway angled in for another kiss before jerking back with a small frown at that last sentence. “What is it you want, Sid? You want to fuck me? I want that, too. Don’t think just because you’re our…” The word _whore_ seemed to get stuck in his mouth, and he waved it away, as if he could wave away Sid’s circumstances. “I just mean, you get a say in this, too.”

“Just want to make you happy.” Sid backpedaled to the makeshift bed, the piled up straw, starting to shuck off his boots; he didn’t quite trust himself to stand and disrobe at the same time. His knee felt better, but still nowhere near 100%.

“If you wanted to make me happy, you wouldn’t make me box.”

Sid paused from unbuttoning his trousers to laugh. “Touché. But that’s different.”

“Not really, Sid. But.” Ryan knelt between his legs, helping pull his shirt over his head before speaking next, voice soft. “Yes. I’d love for you to fuck me.”

It was hard to stop smiling, Sid found, as he dipped his head for another kiss. Ryan certainly wasn’t the only one who would get something out of this encounter, and as much as he’d enjoyed watching Boone take him, Sid relished the thought of doing it himself. Moreover, he knew what Ryan liked, borne from months of being intimate with him; if he’d enjoyed himself with Boone, Sid planned on turning him into a writhing, begging mess underneath him.

Kissing and slow, soft touches were easy shortcuts to getting Ryan pliant and whimpering in his hands. Both clad only in breeches now, Sid pulled Ryan up onto his lap, taking long pulls from his mouth while his hands wandered. He skittered his fingers up Ryan’s ribs, flicked a fingernail against Ryan’s nipples until they were hard nubs, then traced downwards to the cut of his hips. His hands slid easily, with Ryan still slick from sweat, although he was starting to dry off as they kissed. By the time Sid traced his shoulder blade, up to the frizzed ends of his hair just underneath the skull, his skin had dried enough to go tacky instead of wet.

Sid ignored the noise of protest, the attempt to chase his mouth, when he pulled back from the kiss. Instead, he nudged Ryan’s head to the side and sucked his earlobe between his teeth. It was a bit of a dangerous move; done too early, it collapsed Ryan into a giggling, ticklish jumble. Now, though, he made a punched-out little sound and jerked his hips involuntarily, and tilted his head for more.

“I thought of this,” Sid kept his voice low, tracing the shell of Ryan’s ear with his tongue. “Every day since our talk. Thought of the face you made when Boone pushed inside you, and... _wanted.”_

Ryan made a strangled noise that was probably Sid’s own name, and he switched sides, nipping at Ryan’s other ear before continuing. “I’m not Boone, though. God love him, but he gets all desperate and urgent and wants it _fast._ No patience. Me, I sort of want to take you apart piece by piece, slowly.”

“Oh, God,” Ryan exhaled, and he already sounded a bit stripped bare. Sid smiled, kissed just under his ear, the scruff tickling his mouth. This sort of filthy talk was not something he usually did with Ryan, figuring the younger man would just be embarrassed by it all, so his reaction told Sid just how into this he truly was.

Ryan’s breeches were still damp with sweat from his fighting lesson, almost see-through in spots. “Take these off?” Sid asked, and Ryan scrambled off his lap to pull them down, then helped Sid with his own. He started to climb back on top of Sid, but was stopped. “You lay down,” Sid commanded, sliding down to the floor and biting back a hiss as he got on his knees. He was careful to mask any signs of pain for Ryan’s benefit, although his eyes were still wide with concern.

“Are you going to be okay - “

“Shhh.” Sid reached up to tip him back off his elbows, pushing him down to the bed, then peeled his legs open with little resistance. “I’ll be more than okay,” he said, regarding the situation in front of him. Ryan was hard, achingly so, his cock laying heavy against his stomach. Sid ignored it, for the moment, spread his legs a little wider, pressed his thumbs to the curve of Ryan’s ass and spread that, too.

It was just a soft kiss, a wet graze of his mouth against Ryan’s entrance, but Ryan was immediately back up on his elbows, eyes wild and wide. _“What - “_

“Mmm? Shhh,” Sid shushed him again, offered another small kiss and a lick. He kept his eyes up on Ryan as best he could, watched him flush a deep red, felt his thighs tremble.

“That’s...obscene,” Ryan practically whispered the last word.

“Ohh, but fingers, or a cock, that’s okay? But this, this is obscene?”

“It’s - that’s - different.”

“Is it?” Sid purred out, mouth hovering between his thighs, not touching, but breathing hot over Ryan’s hole. “I’m not so sure it is. Give me thirty seconds, Ryan, and if you hate it, I’ll stop.”

“Thirty sec - ohh.” Sid didn’t let him finish his sentence, keeping him spread wide with his hands while his tongue worked. He didn’t dip it inside, not yet, just licked with long flat swipes and the occasional swirl around the rim. He was vaguely aware that the time limit had passed with no protest from Ryan, so Sid glanced up, saw him biting his lip, his hands balled in fists, eyes screwed shut just as tight.

“I can stop, if you don’t like it.”

It took a long moment for Ryan to speak, wetting his lips a few times before doing so. “It’s - I don’t know how to feel about it. Maybe you could…”

“Hm?”

“Maybe you could, uh. Do it more?”

Sid bit back his satisfied chuckle, giving him an earnest nod. “As you wish. And Ryan?” Ryan popped an eye open, looking down. “I love it,” Sid declared, hoping that would put his mind at ease. “Really, I do.” With that, he moved back between his thighs, and let his tongue stab a little harder this time, pushing at the ring of muscle.

The statement by Sid, that he _enjoyed_ it, seemed to relax Ryan, unballing his fists and sinking down with a soft sigh. Sid pulled back a little to wet his thumb, then pressed it against Ryan, catching it on the rim and tugging, then again, pushing a little deeper. He added his tongue around the pushing finger and Ryan slid his legs open with a soft moan. “Please,” he muttered. “Sid. More?”

“Because you asked so nicely.” There was a bottle of oil, half-full on the ground; Sid stuck his finger inside, tipped it to coat, and repeated with a second finger, ignoring Ryan’s impatient huff.

_“Sid.”_

“Patience,” Sid told him, grinning as he saw that Ryan’s had balled up his hands again. This time, it was out of frustration, instead of nerves. Sid finally put him out of his misery with a slick press of his finger, working one inside, then two, tongue darting out between the digits as they pushed. “Okay?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Sid wasn’t particularly satisfied with that curt response. “Do you know,” he said, almost conversationally, “when we’re together, and I ask you to angle one way or another, and you do, and then I fall apart...do you know why I ask? It’s - mmm, let’s see...there?” He curled his fingers experimentally, and Ryan nearly arched off the bed. “Yeah, there it is.”

“Again,” Ryan gasped.

“Greedy.” Sid mouthed at his hip bone, but did it again, sliding his fingers down over the spot and back up, rubbing from the inside. “I’m going to try and hit that with every thrust, hmm?”

Ryan nodded helplessly. “Please fuck me, Sid. Please, please, _please.”_

Truth be told, Sid was starting to crack apart as well, watching Ryan writhe and plead and lose control underneath his attentions. He didn’t think he was going to last too long, but from the looks of it Ryan was already near the edge as well, so he slowly pulled his fingers out, wiped the excess oil on his cock, and fit his body against Ryan’s, all bony angles and hot skin. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and almost asked _are you ready?_ But from the wild, desperate look in Ryan’s eyes, it was not a question that needed to be asked.

“Need you,” Ryan grunted as Sid found the right angle, set himself against Ryan’s entrance and inched his hips forward. His knee protested, but was overwritten by pleasure, tight heat and Ryan’s legs around his waist pulling him closer and a crushing, urgent kiss.

He took a long moment, after he was fully seated, to just hang his head and wait, wrestling control back with long, deep breaths. Then: “Sid?” At first, he couldn’t quite figure out why it was a question, so different from the moaned and whispered versions of his name that Ryan had been offering this evening. Then, he caught Ryan’s gaze, tilted in panic, and realized the voice had come from the top of the steps.

“Sid, you down here?”

“Oh,” Sid murmured to Ryan. “It’s just Boone.” _Just Boone_ did not seem to placate him; if anything, he looked even more anxious. “Down here, with Ryan,” he called.

“Sid, _no,”_ Ryan hissed in horror, but it was too late; loud bootsteps filled the room as Boone clomped down the stairs. He’d been drinking, Sid could already tell from his heavy footfalls.

“It’s fine.” Sid gave Ryan a reassuring kiss, and Boone reached the bottom of the stairs as he did so. He stood there for a long moment, quietly blinking at the scene in front of him.

“You’re having fun without me,” he said, at last, taking a step forward.

“Then maybe you should come over here.” Sid tried to kiss the distressed expression off Ryan’s face, but wasn’t having much luck. “Say hello to Ryan.”

“Hey, Murr,” Boone knelt by the bed; he was grinning, like Sid suspected he would be. Perhaps, if their situations had been reversed, if Sid had been on his back or his knees for Ryan, it would be different, as it had been with Dubinsky. But here, buried to the hilt inside Ryan, something Boone had never seen before - he was into it, Sid could tell. “Why d’you look like that? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

Sid kissed down his jaw, nipping at his collarbone. “He thinks you’re going to be pissed.”

“Aren’t you?” Ryan chewed on his lip, tilting his head for Sid’s mouth despite himself.

Boone shook his head. “Oh, naw. I mean, I’m not really into taking it. So this is something I can’t give him. And it seems to make him happy. Sid, does this make you happy?”

Sid lifted his head, nuzzled at Boone’s jaw in turn. “What do you think?”

Boone growled in response, shifting his mouth down to Sid’s and offering a hard, biting kiss, all tongue and teeth and a small undercurrent of possessiveness, Sid could tell. By the time they broke, mouths red and wet, Ryan was squirming underneath Sid again and back fully hard, from where he’d flagged a bit at the sight of Boone.

“We’re being rude,” Sid clicked his tongue in disapproval. “You should say _hello_ to Ryan, too.”

“Maybe _you_ should think about moving those hips of yours,” Boone retorted, gently smacking Sid on his side, but leaned down next to Ryan’s mouth, nose touching his. “Hi,” he greeted again before pulling Ryan into a crushing kiss, not asking for permission.

It took a moment for Ryan to submit, but his stiff and apprehensive body language morphed into something hungry after a long minute; he hooked his hands around Boone’s ears to deepen the kiss. That was Sid’s cue to move, he figured, and the first thrust ripped a groan from both men, although Ryan’s was muffled in Boone’s mouth.

“You feel so good,” Sid mumbled, forehead pressed against Ryan’s shoulder while he continued to kiss Boone. He gave himself a few thrusts just to get used to the sensation, what he hadn’t had in years, before shifting his hips, testing out a few angles to try and find Ryan’s trigger point inside. “God, we should have done this earlier.”

Boone made a muffled, surprised noise in Ryan’s mouth, pulling away. “Wait,” he said, breathless. “Is this the first time Sid’s been on top?”

Ryan nodded, flushed and mute.

“What a fuckin’ occasion,” Boone laughed. He just watched for a moment as Sid found the angle, and Ryan threw his head back, whimpering out soft little sounds. “Oh, shit, that’s hot. Is that good, Murr?” Boone gently mouthed at Ryan’s jaw.

After a few notes of gibberish, Ryan managed out a word: “Please.”

“You like Sid fucking you?” Boone trailed his palm down Ryan’s chest, his stomach, damp again with fresh sweat in the hot brig. “I don’t need to ask Sidney if he likes it. I know he does, I know how good you are. I fuckin’ remember.” Ryan’s own hand was heading down that way, but Boone flicked it aside, curled his fingers around Ryan’s cock and started to stroke.

Sid was close; he had a grip on Ryan’s legs that he knew must be uncomfortably tight, but Ryan wasn’t complaining, still arching and groaning under Boone’s hand and his own thrusts. More than anything, he wanted to see the face Ryan made when he came, the blissed-out, open-jawed expression he’d made with Boone, so different than the one he made when he was on top. He put a little more pressure on his bad knee, and the slight jolt of pain was enough to bring him back from the edge. “Get him off, Boone.”

“I’m getting there,” Boone said, lazily moving back and forth between Ryan and Sid, kissing Sid’s chest, then Ryan’s jaw.

“Well - ... _faster,_ okay?”

“Shit.” Boone moved up to Ryan’s mouth, smiling against it. “He always says I’m the impatient one. Ry, you gonna come for me? For _us?_ You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Ryan gasped out, looking like he was trying to squirm out of his body. “Yes - _oh…”_

Boone kissed him, swallowing up Ryan’s little noises of pleasure as he came, stroking him through his orgasm. He pulled back when Ryan was boneless and exhausted against the straw bed, turning his attention to Sid. “Your turn,” he grinned, moving behind him and wrapping Sid in his arms, biting a line down the back of his neck and then up to his ear.

It was a bit of a surreal scenario, Sid thought: Boone kissing him from behind, Ryan spent and pleased underneath him, shivering from the thrusts, over-sensitive. “I fucking love you,” Boone breathed in his ear, thumb rubbing in circles around his nipple. “You fucked Ryan so good, didn’t you? Look at him down there, you blew his fucking mind. Your turn, now, I can see you’re close. C’mon, Sid.”

“Fuck,” Sid bit in response, shifting back to pull out so he could jerk himself off to finish. Once again, Boone batted his hand away and took over, whispering filthy things in his ear, still. 

“Lemme see, c’mon, finish all over Ryan, just like I did.”

_“Fuck,”_ Sid cried again, slumping back into Boone as he finished, letting the other man hold him up. Once spent, Boone grabbed his jaw and twisted his head around for an urgent kiss, grinding into Sid’s hip. He was hard, Sid could tell, but didn’t break the kiss until he felt Ryan squirm underneath him.

“Sorry,” he murmured to Ryan. “As I said, we’re rude.” Ryan was watching them with a longing expression, chewing on his lower lip, glancing away as Sid looked down at him.

“It’s fine,” he said, although Sid could see the poorly masked _want_ in his clenched jaw. But exactly what Ryan wanted - whether to be in Sid’s position, or simply to have someone who kissed him like Boone kissed Sid - that, Sid was unsure of.

Boone seemed oblivious, biting at Sid’s shoulder. “Boys,” he said, with a distinctive whiny note, “I took care of you. Wanna return the favor?”

Sid scooted back so Boone could sit down, tugging at his pantaloons already, and Ryan slithered off the bed to wash his belly off. “Hey, you don’t have to go,” Boone protested, to Ryan’s surprise.

“You want - ...me?” Ryan held the dripping cloth against his stomach, blinking dumbly.

“Well, only if you want.” Boone slid his hands through Sid’s hair as he finishing unbuttoning and tugged Boone’s cock free, licking a wet stripe upwards. “Fuck yeah, Sid. I mean, Murr, you wanna come on over and help, of course I’d be into it.”

“You’re sure?”

Sid twisted around, made a grab for Ryan. “Don’t be shy on account of me, Ry.” He pulled Ryan to sit on the other side of Boone, smiling. “I’m happy to have help.” Sid ducked his head back down, started to mouth at the head of Boone’s cock, but Ryan still stared, dumbly, for a long moment, unsure of what to do. Sid sat back up and tugged on Ryan’s beard. “Get down here.”

“Down…?” Ryan bent his head, still looking unsure, so Sid moved from his beard to his hair, fisting it between his fingers.

“Open your mouth?” It was enough of a question to give Ryan an out, allow him to say _no,_ but he did as asked. Sid pushed his head down, held Boone’s cock steady while he fed it into Ryan’s mouth. Boone made a small, heated noise at the sight; he apparently found it as hot as Sid did.

It was cramped quarters, the two of them down there, Ryan moving his mouth up and down in a steady rhythm while Sid tried to find room to lick at anything that wasn’t being sucked. Sid was sucking on the base when Ryan took a particularly deep bob, and they smacked heads, both pulling up and laughing.

“Ow,” Ryan grinned, rubbing his jaw. “You have a hard head.”

_“You_ have a hard head,” Sid shot back with a grin, and then they were kissing, hot and breathless while Boone’s cock bobbed just beside their mouths.

“Boys!” Boone groused, pushing at their heads. “I’m fuckin’ _close,_ and this ain’t helping.”

Sid smirked, pulling back a little. “I’ll finish down here, you go...occupy his mouth a little. Just shut him up, eh?”

Sid could hear the sounds of sloppy kissing as he went back down on Boone, could feel both other men’s body heat, radiating warmth. There was a hand gently resting on his head, scritching through his curls as he sucked, but he wasn’t sure if it was Boone’s or Ryan’s.

The noises that Boone made when he came - something Sid had heard often - sounded new and different in Ryan’s mouth. Sid hadn’t expected it to be quite as intriguing as it was. He swallowed, licked his lips, and glanced up to find them still kissing, urgency tamped down to lazy satedness.

Sid yawned, a little too loudly, dropping his head on Boone’s thigh, and Ryan pulled back with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“Why you sorry?” Boone asked. “That was _great.”_

Sid caught Ryan’s eye, lifted an eyebrow. _Is this going to be a thing, now?_ Both men were thinking it. Not Boone, obviously, who seemed happily oblivious to the silent question between Ryan and Sid.

But, Boone provided an answer anyway. “I mean, why should I turn that down? _Both_ of you? Fuck yeah.”

“So - this is…?” Ryan stammered, nervously. He didn’t even seem to know how to end that sentence.

Sid took pity on him after a long moment of silence and spoke up. “Play it by ear,” he decided. “Whatever we feel like.” It wasn’t really an answer, but it was the best he could do for now, he decided. He truly didn’t mind Boone having sex with anyone else; that certainly wouldn’t be fair, considering his position in life. He knew Boone was devoted to him. But there was a small, deep sliver of fear, knowing Ryan _loved_ Boone. Sid didn’t want this to fuck up what he had with Ryan. He wasn’t sure what he would do, if he lost Ryan as a friend. He nudged Ryan in the thigh, reached over to snag his hand and give it a squeeze. “Is that okay? Ry?”

Ryan smiled. There was something sad behind it that made Sid’s heart lurch, but it was a genuine smile. “That’s great, Sid.”


	32. Chapter 32

Ryan never thought that fighting could be so exhausting. There were guys on board that could brawl for what seemed like hours, back in the taverns in the Caribbean, and not get tired. But just 30 minutes and he was soaked in sweat.

At some point, they’d moved their lessons from the brig to the deck. Even though the brig made it far easier for Ryan to _distract_ Sid from boxing lessons (one kiss turned into two turned into other things), it was simply too stuffy and hot down there most nights. Even as they rounded north towards Russia and it got colder and colder, below deck still retained a good amount of heat.

So tonight, as the last few times, they were on deck, tucked in the back behind the rear mast, which at least afforded them a little privacy. It was late enough that Sid had satisfied all the boys that wanted his attention, and the deck was mostly deserted with the hour. The crew manning the helm had gotten bored of watching Ryan jab and punch and kick after the second time out. Ryan wasn't sure how many times they'd met so far for these boxing lessons: seven, eight? Enough that he was definitely better, but still felt sorely unprepared. He glanced over at Sid; Ryan could see his toothy grin in the moonlight.

"I can tell you don't think so, but it looks good," Sid told him. "Look, every few jabs or so, you still round your punches out. Remember, it's a straight arm, that's where all your power comes from," Sid demonstrated, slowly. "It’s a completely different stance if you’re going to roundhouse it. We can talk about that later, but for now, keep your elbow tucked. And power from your legs. Plus, you keep going high. I never aim for the face at first - "

"Yeah, you said," Ryan panted, hands on his knees. "Neck for impact, ribs to tire him out."

"Right, catch him in the ribs, he doubles over, exposes his face, you go for it then." Sid gave Ryan a few moments to catch his breath. "Alright, Ry. Time for the real stuff. You're going to learn to take a punch. You actually want to move into a punch, if you know you're going to get hit. The sooner that fist comes to you, the less power it has. If you can take it off the forehead, great, that's a big old block of bone." Sid rapped Ryan's forehead with his knuckles, gently. "Tense your neck muscles, close your jaw, move into it. Here, I’ll show you. But first, maybe you want to take off your jewelry and shirt.”

“What?”

Sid chuckled. “You’re going to punch me, but I’d prefer not to get cut with your rings, and your necklaces swinging around is a bit dangerous. In a real fight, it is what it is, but why take the chance in practice?” He held out his hand expectantly for Ryan’s jewelry.

“I’m going to punch you?”

“You’re going to watch me take a punch, yes. And you’re going to do that by punching me.” Sid wiggled his fingers, hand still outstretched. “Jewelry. C’mon.”

Ryan gave an expansive sigh, wiggling off a cheap gold band with two small, rough stones. It was tradition, Sid knew, to keep a ring from your first win as a pirate. For the ring to be this small and plain, either it must have been a small take...or perhaps it was indicative of how far down the totem pole Ryan was. In addition to the ring, he also offered up two necklaces, one with a key dangling from it and another with what looked like a family crest. “Your earring,” Sid reminded him, and Ryan gave that up as well, a gold crescent. Another pirate tradition. The gold was meant to pay for the transport of your body and proper burial on land if ever you died, instead of just being sunk at sea.

Sid himself had taken to wearing an earring as the captain of the _Penguin_. Dubinsky had stolen it before selling him to the brothel; Sid wondered idly where it had ended up. He certainly had never gotten it back. “And your shirt,” Sid told him.

“My shirt?” Ryan frowned, but pulled that over his head as well and handed it over. “I get the jewelry, but why the shirt?”

“Oh, that’s for me,” Sid said. “I just wanted to see you shirtless.” He wrapped up Ryan’s jewelry in his shirt, carefully setting it aside while Ryan groaned and rolled his eyes.

“There’s easier ways to get me naked, you know.”

“Well, _really,_ it’s better for me to see how you move and shift with the less clothes you have on. But I won’t complain about the view, either.” Sid grinned and headed back towards him. “Alright, Ry. Square up and punch me. I mean, don't go to town, but make it hard enough that I'll feel it. Watch what I do. Remember: tense neck, close your jaw, lean in."

"Fuck," Ryan muttered as Sid limped in front of him, into position, squaring up to him. “You're...ready?"

"Just watch what I do. Let's go!"

Ryan took a long, shuddering breath, inhaled deeply - held it for a moment, thinking calm, like Sid told him, when it came to the start of a fight. Then, he jabbed his fist forward. Sure enough, Sid leaned into the punch, tilting his head to take it off the temple. He didn't seem too affected by the hit, but moved one leg behind him to steady himself from the recoil of the punch. Unfortunately, it was his bad knee, and it promptly collapsed. He fell backwards into a huge coil of rope, toppling his cane, which had been resting against it. It made a loud _thunk_ when the metal tip hit the deck, and there were suddenly heavy footsteps coming towards them.

Ryan knelt down, looking frantic. "Sid, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine." He sighed, waving off any help, scowling at his knee as if it had personally offended him. "Did you see what I - oh, shit."

Suddenly, the footsteps had arrived, skidding to a halt in front of the pair. It was Boone, and he looked furious, angrier than Ryan had ever seen him, and was reflexively clenching and unclenching his fists. He looked like he was trying not to do something stupid. Where did he come from? “What in the _fuck_ \- “ he spluttered, fury replaced momentarily with utter bewilderment upon sighting Ryan. “Murrs?! I - but you - I saw you, you fucking punched him. What the fuck is going on? After everything we’ve been through - “ He was working himself back up to a fit, taking a threatening step forward towards Ryan.

"What are you doing here?" Sid asked, still down on the deck, but now having elbowed Ryan behind him, protectively.

The question seemed to stumble Boone, his bared-teeth scowl faltering, lips falling closed to a confused look. "I, uh...I hardly think that's the important part, right now..."

Sid sighed. They hadn't told Boone about the fighting lessons; a big reason for learning to fight was for Ryan to kick Dubinsky's ass if needed, and both men knew instinctively that Boone would not approve. "It's fine, Boone. I'm just teaching him how to box. Blame my stupid knee."

"How could you even see that it was us?" Ryan squinted across the deck, towards the few men at the helm. He could make out vague people-shaped figures, and the moon was bright enough that he could tell their faces were turned towards him now, shining off the skin. But no features could be made out. That was mostly the reason they chose this space. They'd had no idea Boone was out here, too. 

"When Sid fell...his cane. Nobody else uses a cane," Boone picked it up from where it had rolled, holding it out for Sid and addressing Ryan. "You're learning how to fight? Why?"

"Why not?" It was a shitty answer. Ryan knew it, and from the expression on Boone's face, he knew it too. "I mean, it's an important skill, right?"

"One you've never shown interest in, before."

"Alright, you got me," Sid deadpanned, pushing himself to sit on the rope coil. "I'm actually intending to have you and Ryan fight for my honor, and whoever wins, gets me."

Boone blinked dumbly before a moment before narrowing his eyes, trying not to smirk. "I'll just let him have you, then. Seriously, though, why?"

"Eh, I'll take the blame for it." Sid twirled his cane in his fingers. "Last month, that fight with the Russian ship, when you saved him? I realized Ryan didn’t really know how to fight. And that if you hadn’t been there, he’d probably be dead. So I volunteered to teach him, so he can protect himself in case you’re not there.” It wasn’t quite the whole story, but Boone didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll be there,” Boone said, finally relaxing into a smile. “You know I’ll always be there. Protect _both_ of you.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Sid argued. “Don’t give Ryan any ideas, he already doesn’t want to learn. Anyway, it’s nice being useful in a way that doesn’t involve sex. You've still yet to answer why you're here. Not that I'm complaining, I suppose."

"I thought you were with Wenny all night," Boone plopped next to Sid, on the coil of rope. "So I came up here to have a drink with Bob."

Sid snorted. "Wennberg, all night? Pretty as he is, he’s really more of a two minute job. It’s not bad, I just have to sit there while he grabs my ears and - ...uh, never mind," he finished at Boone's cringe. "I just mean it leaves me some time to do this."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Ryan leaned against the side of the deck, staring up at the sky. "If we told you that I was going to punch Sid, and vice versa, would you have been thrilled?"

"Well, probably not." Boone's eyes lit up in the moonlight, and he jumped up next to Ryan. "You can spar with me!"

"Uh - " Ryan flicked his gaze to Sid for some help, got a little panicked when he saw none forthcoming. "I don't think I'm ready."

Sid looked thoughtful. "He's not ready for sparring, but I'm trying to teach him how to take a punch. Ryan, did you watch how I did it?"

"Yes," he replied, unable to stop the little quaver in his voice. "But I'm still, uh. Uncomfortable."

"Punch me and watch!" Boone looked entirely too excited by the prospect; Ryan bit back a sigh, lining up again, this time towards a grinning Boone.

After a couple practice tries of watching Boone take a blow, and having Boone punch towards him while he practiced clenching and leaning in, it was finally time to take an actual punch. At the last second, he jerked backwards from Boone's fist; the punch grazed his jaw, painfully, and he skittered backwards, falling on his ass.

"Lean into it!" Sid admonished. "Not back! Again!"

The second time was better. He managed to correctly lean into it, even taking the blow right on the forehead. It didn't hurt as bad as he'd feared, and Boone was left shaking his hand out. Ryan touched the spot where he'd taken the punch. It was tender, but the pain was already fading. "Was that so bad?" Sid asked, and Ryan shook his head.

"You did great!" Boone yelped, jumping on Ryan and ruffling his hair. Ryan laughed, attempting to pull free, and then the pair were mock wrestling until Ryan got the upper hand, landing on the deck, on top of Boone. He suspected the other man let him win, but hell, he'd take it.

"I think that's enough for tonight. You mentioned a drink, Boone?" Sid asked with a smile. He gently unwrapped Ryan’s shirt and jewelry and handed it back over.

"Oh, yeah." Boone clambered to his feet only to drop on the rope next to Sid, patting the coil next to him for Ryan, and pulled out his flask. "It's an Icelandic alcohol. Don't ask me to pronounce it. Aw, Ry, you don’t need to get dressed on account of me,” he winked as Ryan pulled his shirt back on.

“Don’t get any ideas tonight, I’m exhausted,” Ryan said, refastening his jewelry before accepting the flask from Boone and taking a sip. "It's sweet," he marveled, handing it to Sid.

Boone nodded. "Some kind of schnapps. But not bad, right?"

After a gulp of the booze, Sid shifted his head to Boone's lap, staring up at the sky. Boone offered Ryan another drink, but instead of taking the flask back after the sip, he wound his arm around Ryan's waist, yanking him close. Only when Ryan let his head fall to Boone's shoulder did he take the flask back.

"Look at the aurora," Sid muttered, still staring up, eyes falling half-closed as Boone started combing his fingers through Sid's hair. "It's reddish, tonight. But you can barely see the red, because of the moonlight."

Boone looked up at the sky, tilting his head. "Aurora. You mean the Lights?" He gestured to the swath of green and red.

"Yes. Aurora borealis is the official name. We came up north, here, when I was just a sailor in the Navy. I couldn't get enough of it. I'd sneak up on deck at night to watch. Got caught once." He smirked. "The lashing was worth it. If only I'd known that I would see them again, someday."

"What do you think they are? Like, why do they appear?"

"Mmm...I don't know."

Ryan cleared his throat, softly. "They think it's magnetic storms. It can mess with your compass, I guess. That's what my father told me."

At the mention of his father, Sid's eyes flicked from the sky to Ryan's face. He tried to look unphased, but when Sid snuck his arm into Ryan's lap to grab his hand, Ryan accepted, tangling his fingers together with Sid's. Even after all these years, his family was still a sore spot. Sid remembered the family crest, on the necklace. It was hard to give up family, he knew, even if that family was terrible.

"I wonder, sometimes, if it would have been better to have had my family, or yours, Sid," Ryan murmured.

Sid frowned. "I didn't have a family for long. Don't really remember much about them. I was an orphan starting around eight years."

"Exactly."

"...oh."

Boone tightened his arm around Ryan's waist. "I wish you could meet my Mom. She'd adopt both of you. She's real special."

"Well, look at her son," Sid winked up at him, and Boone grinned.

"You know," Ryan said, thoughtfully. "Most of the crew are war criminals in Columbus, right? Including you, Boone. But Sid’s never been to Columbus, and I’ve only visited a few times. They wouldn't know us. We could definitely sneak in."

"And find a way to get you in, too," Sid nodded at Boone. "Or, hell. We can go to Pittsburgh. We'll find a way to bring your mother, Boone."

"Or you can stop talking about deserting, right here on the deck where everyone can hear you," Boone replied, tone deceptively light-hearted.

"Fair point," Sid agreed. "I wonder what Russia is going to be like."

"New alcohol to try," Boone smiled. "And fur coats!"

"And I wonder if we'll see this every night," Sid gestured to the night sky, eyes slitted just barely open, threatening to drop closed from the scalp massage.

"Oh, will I find you on deck every night, then?"

"Maybe. Who needs you when I have this light show?"

Ryan snuggled closer against Boone, listening to the pair tease and bicker. Sid's fingers were cold, but he didn't want to let them go, was still holding his hand. Truth be told, Russia scared him - everything about this trip felt like a bad idea, like they were stuck between a rock and a hard place of staying where they were, or moving on. But having these two made him feel a lot better. Finally, they stopped chirping at each other, were now star-watching in a quiet yet companionable fashion. Ryan raised his eyes to the sky to join them.


	33. Chapter 33

There was a noise not unlike a cannonball rolling down the stairs towards Sid’s room, rousing him from his sleep. Their porthole was still boarded up from where it had been shattered, earlier, but faint streaks of light shone through the wooden boards. It felt late, almost like afternoon, and his stomach growled. He wondered if he’d missed lunch. Last night had been long; there had been a poker game, and Jack Johnson had lost his entire private stash of booze to the table, which was promptly ripped into by the crew. It had been a rowdy and rambunctious evening of drink, followed by a demanding night for his services as men got tipsy, and horny.

So, he figured he ought to get up, although it was very tempting to just roll back over and sleep until dinner.

The heavy pounding turned out to be footsteps, and those belonged to Brandon Dubinsky. He tore into the room, looking furious. His lip was puffy and swollen and there was blood smashed through an eyebrow, turning the hairs red and lurid. There was a large rip in his shirt.

Sid snorted, a short, shocked chuckle. _Ryan._ They’d continued their sparring lessons over the past few weeks, whenever Sid could spare time away from the crew. It had often ended with the three of them, Ryan and Boone and Sid, up on deck, chatting and laughing and drinking.

Just a few days ago, Ryan and Boone had gone toe-to-toe in a friendly spar, and the match had ended with Boone on the deck, clutching his ribs. Sid had been proud to declare that Ryan was as prepared as perhaps he ever would be to protect himself. And to fight back, although neither he nor Ryan had mentioned _that_ to Boone. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.

Ryan wasn’t going to go looking for a fight, but Sid was hopeful that he wouldn’t back down from one, either. And unless Brandon had scrapped with someone else on board, Sid had gotten his wish. As much as he wanted to, he could never fight Dubinsky, but _Ryan_ could; and here Brandon was, cut up, bleeding, looking worse for wear. Sid hoped Ryan had fared better in the scrap than Brandon apparently had. Was Ryan okay?

He didn't have a lot of time to ponder the question. Brandon whipped his fierce gaze towards the noise of Sid's small laugh, and Sid immediately fell silent, shrinking back a little into bed.

"You think this is fucking funny?" he raged. "Bet you're so excited to see your buddy finally grow a pair of balls and do this shit?"

So it _had_ been Ryan that caused the damage. He’d fought back. Sid felt immensely proud and excited, but stayed quiet, averting his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with Brandon's anger, could feel it radiate off the man, poisoning the air.

"Brig," Dubinsky snarled, between grit teeth. _"Now."_

Sid winced, tried not to show his dread, just murmured an assent and moved to obey. He should have figured Brandon would need to make himself feel in control again by picking on the one who couldn't say no, couldn't fight back.

He decided, in the middle of it all, with Brandon shoving his face against the wall, screaming at him, _tell me you want it, beg for it, you fucking whore,_ having used entirely too little lube and being entirely too rough, that Sid would tell neither Boone nor Ryan about this encounter, that it would taint the victory. Ryan would feel guilty forever, and it wasn't his fault that his bully was picking on an easy target. Anyway, Sid could take it. He'd taken far worse. He begged and whimpered and asked for it, like Brandon said he wanted, the act coming second nature now.

Brandon pulled out, suddenly, and Sid turned around, knelt and lifted his face skyward; Dubinsky liked to come on his face. But his cock was already slumping. Sid reached behind him, touched his back, but it was dry.

"Did you come inside me?" he asked, betrayed, hesitating to reach between his legs, almost afraid of what he'd find. Everyone always pulled out, came on his stomach, or back, or sometimes face or chest. Not doing so was considered too intimate, the right of only Boone's to take. Even Nick had respected that boundary thus far. But Sid knew the answer already, could feel it start to trickle down his thighs.

"I can do whatever I want," Dubinsky snapped back. "You're a whore. You're a _slave._ If I want to come inside you, that's what I'll fucking do."

"But. But... _Boone."_

Dubinsky's face twisted at the name, a flash of regret flickering on his features. "Fuck!" he snarled, pulling his clothes back on wordlessly, and then he was gone.

Sid tried to clean up as best he could, biting his tongue and cheek to prevent the tears. He couldn't quite place why he was so upset. His entire world consisted of being violated, on a near-daily basis, yet this was something new, and it hurt. It was like he'd always been able to save _something_ for Boone, and now that had been taken away, too. When he was done cleaning, he curled on the bed, knees pulled to his chest, and waited for someone else to walk down the stairs.

It was a busy night, but luckily everyone who visited was someone that Sid had a decently-okay relationship with. He begged them all for blowjobs instead of sex, and thank God, they all agreed. Seth liked his sloppy, spit everywhere (although Sid still felt a thrill of terror at the sight of his peg leg, at the promise that it could happen to him). Dubois wanted his balls licked, sucked, played with. And Panarin would never admit it, but he liked some teeth, just a sliver of toothiness as Sid's mouth ran up and down his cock. Sid tried to make it good for all of them, as a thank-you for not demanding sex.

He went up on deck as it was getting late, his evening finished, wondering where to find Boone. Even outside the sparring lessons, they'd taken over the rope coil as a nightly hangout of sorts, drinking and watching the aurora. It made for a good sitting and laying spot on deck. Ryan often joined them. But sometimes it was Cam Atkinson, or even Lukas Sedlak. That wasn't a bad thing - if he could get the crew to see him as a person, not a thing, it meant better treatment. But tonight he wished, hoped, that Boone was alone, or perhaps only with Ryan.

Sid took a deep breath, trying to will down the pain. He'd have been limping from Dubinsky's treatment even if his knee wasn't fucked up, but now it was worse, walking like he was fresh from the _Capital._ He hoped Boone wouldn't notice. As he got closer to the rope coil, he saw two figures. Boone, and - fuck, it was Cam.

But Cam, for all his faults, wasn't an idiot. Sid saw him pick up on the fresh limp right away, and smiled tightly at Boone. "I gotta go," he said, nodding at Sid in greeting as he went past.

"Something wrong?" Boone had picked up on it, too, so it must be real bad, Sid thought to himself. He was not the most observant man on board, sometimes.

"Just hurts today. Still getting used to the cold," Sid lied, dropping on the rope next to Boone, who promptly pulled Sid into his lip.

"I'll warm you up," Boone growled, playfully, but Sid shook his head. If Boone got his pants off, he couldn't hide the encounter with Brandon. He certainly wasn't limping only because his knee hurt. Boone's heavy arms felt comforting and warm, and Sid already felt better about the evening.

"Hurts that bad, huh? Well, maybe this will cheer you up." Boone dropped his voice, sounding scandalized. "Ryan and Dubi got into it today. I don't know why, I don't know what was said or what caused it, but suddenly they're outside the crew quarters just whaling on each other. Ryan's got a black eye, but I heard Dubi took the worst of it. He got nailed in the ribs a few times, then the face…” Boone trailed off, sounding suspicious. “Mmm. Just like you taught him.”

Sid shrugged, keeping his face pressed to Boone's chest, so the other man couldn't see his grin. His night was definitely better, now, and reaffirmed his decision to keep everything a secret. "Just like _we_ taught him, you mean. And, if he's going to learn to fight, you gotta expect him to actually use those skills, on occasion. Right?"

"Maybe in a friendly spar or bar brawl, but crew members, fighting amongst themselves? Naw, it's not good."

"Sometimes, it has to be done."

"I guess." Boone looked a little sour at that, but quickly cheered up. "Well, at least they got it out of the way. Sometimes you can even improve a relationship by throwing a punch or two. I'm not saying I'm thrilled about it, but maybe you're right."

"Did I ever tell you I once got into it with another Naval officer?"

Boone's eyes lit up. "Oh, tell me everything."

Sid chuckled, getting comfortable in Boone's lap, letting the stress and pain slide away, temporarily forgotten. "Well. It was right after the American alliance was forming. We hosted Nashville in Pittsburgh, and it was after hours, in one of the bars. And there's this Nashville officer, PK Subban..."

~~~~~

It took three days for Sid to feel somewhat normal again, and Dubinsky wouldn't catch his eye the entire time. It was like there was a great black void in the place that Sid was occupying at any given time, his eyes skipping over that section of the room as if it simply didn't exist.

_Not existing_ was perfectly preferable to any other status with Brandon, so he'd take it.

He and Boone finally met Ryan on deck, in their typical hang out spot, just as Sid was starting to shake off the forced encounter and feel better. Ryan had experienced a surge of popularity since the fight, and had been dragged down to the crew quarters to drink and tell the story of what happened, more than once. Sid tended to avoid the crew quarters at all costs, so they hadn't seen Ryan until he could get away.

It had been an ugly, dismissive slur that had set it off. Dubi had bumped into him in the halls, probably on purpose, and turned to snap something about getting the fuck out of his way, you fucking _fairy._ And before Ryan had really realized it, he'd snapped his fist out, catching Dubinsky in the mouth. ("I know you say you never go for the face, first, but it was too perfect," Ryan enthused. Sid swelled with pride; most of being a competent fighter was being willing to take whatever you were given, and that, Ryan had done admirably.) Dubinsky had caught him in the eye, blackening it, but Ryan managed to rain body-blows on the other man until his face was exposed, then caught him in the temple and jaw.

Ryan had brought good, spiced rum, which he'd been saving since the Caribbean, to celebrate on deck. And even though Boone wasn't thrilled about his friend getting beat up, well, based on the circumstances... "I mean," he'd told Ryan, "You must have caught him on a bad day for him to call you that. But he totally deserved it, then."

Sid and Ryan had shared a look, but neither of them corrected Boone. Perhaps it would be better to tell him that one of his oldest friends was a true asshole, but it was not a conversation either looked forward to. So, nothing was said.

After polishing off the rum between the three of them, they'd bid Ryan goodnight and headed back to their room. Sid had never been much of a heavy drinker, and was rarely privy to the best stuff on board, unless Boone managed to sneak him some. He was tipsy, he knew; couldn't stop grinning over the thought of Dubinsky getting punched in the face. Brandon's post-fight face kept running through his mind. Red eyebrow, red swollen lip. Red was Sid's new favorite color, he decided.

The man himself was asleep when they stepped into the room, a blanketed-lump on the bed, unmoving. _Fuck you,_ Sid thought, viciously. _What I'd do to you, if I could. All those times you had fun with me - my fun with you would be very different._

Really, there wasn't much he could do, and still live to see the next day. But Brandon's words came back to him, suddenly, unbidden: _you're a whore,_ and Sid wasn't sure where the idea came from, the depths of the spiced rum or somewhere else, but there was something he could do, small as it was. He was a whore; why not act like it?

"Boone," he purred, softly. He didn't want to wake Brandon up, not yet.

"Mmm?" Boone was in the process of getting ready for bed. Their lamp was dying down in the corner - one was always needed, now, with the boarded-up porthole - and Sid could see him move to take off his boots and pants in the deep shadows. Sid waited for the rustle of clothing that indicated he’d tossed his pantaloons to the floor, as he typically did when drunk, then climbed onto Boone’s lap. "Oh," Boone murmured, throwing a hand behind him so they wouldn't tip over. "What - ?"

"You know what I want."

"But, Dubi - "

"I'll be quiet," Sid lied, lowering his voice to a loud whisper, as if that was going to convince him. But he knew Boone, knew what would get him going, and he wrapped his legs around Boone's waist, grinding the cleft of his ass against his lap. "God, I want you inside me. Please? I want it so bad," he whined softly, and before he was even done with his plea, he could feel Boone's sudden interest, pressing against his thigh.

"Fuck, Sid. You just gotta be quiet, okay," Boone muttered, sliding cold hands up his back, underneath his shirt, and kissing him. Sid _mm-hmm_ 'd an agreement he had no intention of keeping into Boone’s mouth. By the time he got loud, Boone would be too far gone to care. Inside Sid, it was hard to get him to notice or give a shit about anything else.

Boone pulled his hands around to the front, stroking his thumb pads along Sid's nipples. They weren't as cold as the rest of his fingers, but still chilly enough for Sid to hiss against Boone's mouth. The rest of him was radiating heat as he got worked up, breath hot and coming a little faster against Sid's chin.

The touch was withdrawn, freeing Boone's hands to yank off Sid's shirt, the seams creaking a little at the urgency at which they were pulled. Boone chuffed with impatience as Sid climbed off his lap, but it had to be done, he was still wearing his own trousers and boots. When he returned to the bed, he didn't climb back onto Boone, instead nudging his knees apart and dropping between them. He smoothed his palms up Boone's legs, up through the wiry hairs until they rested intimately between his thighs, thumb just out of reach of his balls.

"You want it?" Boone whispered, but now there was a rough, husky note. He had his cock in his hand, mostly hard, gently slapped it against Sid's cheek, then his mouth. Instead of answering, Sid just gave his most plaintive moan and opened his mouth. Boone's cock jerked with interest at the sound Sid was making as he took it down his throat.

If there was one thing Sid was excellent at, it was sucking dick. He'd spent a lot of time down here, on his knees, in front of Boone or other men, these past few years. He'd learned how to open his throat, take most everything without choking or spluttering, and he did so now, his hands dropping lower, cupping the balls. He pulled off only to growl, "pull my hair," and Boone made a soft, excited curse, eagerly yanking as Sid swallowed him back down. Boone loved to grab his head, hair pulled tightly in his fist, and face fuck him, but Sid had to deal with that daily, so Boone was generally respectful enough to let him set the pace. Not tonight. He wanted to drive Boone _crazy._ Crazy, and loud.

Boone was already tilting his hips up, shallowly thrusting down his throat, and Sid shifted slightly to get out of the shadows and into the dim light cast by the lantern. He wanted Boone to watch everything, watch the way his lips ran up and down his length, pulling off every so often to tongue the crown. Sid dropped one hand to play with himself, jerking himself off with a loose grip, like he was getting off just by Boone's cock in his mouth. He could tell when Boone noticed, felt his thighs stiffen, and mutter another curse, much louder than the first. "Fuck, Sid, that's so fucking hot," he whispered, voice quavering like he was having trouble keeping quiet. "Please, I need..."

"Need you inside me," Sid finished for him, pulling off with a loud and obscene _pop_ that practically echoed through the still room. Suddenly, he was hauled to his feet, bent over the bed, and then Boone was dropping to his own knees, burying his face against Sid's hole like a starving man. His tongue was already pressing inside, wet and dripping, and Sid squirmed, not trying hard at all to hold back the whimpers. He tilted his head while Boone ate him out, peering over at the other bed in the room. There were two wide, bright glints above the covers. He couldn't see Dubinsky's face - the lantern was too low for that - but he could feel the stare, and the energy in the room had changed sometime between them stumbling in and Sid sucking Boone's cock. There was no longer a neutral silence from that side of the room of someone sleeping. Instead, it was a tightly-wound bundle of nerves, like Brandon was frozen in place, unsure what to do. Sid almost laughed. Instead, he just groaned, from a place deep in his gut, and whispered, entirely too loud, "God, that's it, Boone. Claim me, make me _yours."_

"You are mine," Boone growled back, an intense snarl, as if someone was challenging his place. He dragged his teeth down the soft, curved flesh of Sid's ass, biting the meaty part, like he wanted to leave his own personal mark. Boone's beard scratched down the skin, and spit dripped down to Sid's balls from the sloppiness left between his cheeks. The twin sensations drove him crazy, foam bubbling on the sides of his mouth as he huffed.

"More," Sid urged, pulling one leg off the floor and onto the bed to spread himself open, wider. But Boone pulled back; Sid could hear him tapping against the floor, then a short _thunk_ and a quiet curse. They'd left the lube down there, he remembered now, and Boone had just found it and promptly knocked it over. Luckily, it had a cap, which Sid could hear him unscrewing. _"More,"_ he growled again, impatiently.

"Shh," Boone murmured. "So eager for it?"

"God, yes."

Boone made an approving grunt. His fingers were unnaturally slick now, dipped in oil, and he caught two of them against Sid's rim, pulling it open, making another approving sound. Sid liked for Boone to fuck him when there had been no one else that night, and he'd gotten lucky, only blowjobs for the crew that evening. He knew Boone liked it too, could tell, with the slight resistance as his finger pushed inside, warm tight heat clinging to the digit as he pumped it.

"Please, Boone, please," Sid whimpered. Now that he knew Dubinsky was awake, listening, he remembered the last time they'd met. He wanted Brandon to know what real begging sounded like, the noises he made when he was so eager for something inside him that it felt like he couldn't breathe, that there was something pushing down on his chest, suffocating him. Nothing like what he'd done with Brandon, false pleas and whimpers, all for show.

Boone gently knocked Sid’s other leg a little wider, keeping the bad knee as straight as possible while allowing for a better angle. He attached his mouth to Sid's balls, sucking while he added another finger, and Sid sighed in pleasure at the loud, obscene slurping noise. Knowing Brandon had to hear their noises was almost as good as the sensation itself. "You know what I want you to do?" Sid asked, voice low, continuing before Boone could answer. "I want you to bend me on this bed, on my hands and knees. Shove my face in the blankets and make me fucking scream while you pound into me. You're the only one I want to beg for, Boone."

Boone groaned, sounding utterly debauched just by the request. He was louder, now, like he forgot Brandon was in the room - or didn't have the brain cells to care, anymore. "The only one?" he murmured, between licks and sucks.

"Nobody else. And then I want you to fill me up."

Boone let out the most wretched hiss of a breath Sid had ever heard, withdrew his fingers, and toppled him forward, on the bed. Sid drew up on his knees and elbows, hoped that the lantern would stay lit while they fucked. He wanted Boone to be in the light, for Dubinsky to have to see his friend fucking Sid, be reminded that he took what only Boone should have had.

And then Boone was behind him, and there was just enough of the dying glow to glint off the sweat which was already beading off his forehead and chest. There was spit, too, that he hadn't bothered to wipe from his beard and neck, and his hair was tousled, and goddamnit: "So fucking hot, Boone," he growled. He considered, for a moment, turning onto his back, so he could watch Boone's face as he pushed inside, that desperate wide 'O' his mouth always made, like he was screaming silently. On his back he would get to watch Boone, staring down at him reverently, like he was something to be worshiped instead of some whore. But no; he wanted to be in the same position Dubinsky had forced him into, a week ago. He wanted the symbolism of it all, loved it.

Boone helped hold him up, arm barred around his waist for support off his knee, and pressed the tip of his cock against Sid's entrance. He paused there for a moment, a silent question: _ready?_ Sid thrust his hips backwards as an answer, burying the tip just slightly past the rim, and heard Boone's breathing grow ragged. "So good for me, Sid," Boone muttered, one arm tightening around Sid’s midsection, the other to his shoulder, pushing in slowly.

But Sid didn't want slow. He pressed his hips backwards, rutting against the slow forward motion. "Oh, that's what you want?" Boone growled, snapping his hips forward. "Like this?" He did it again, his thighs making a loud slapping sound against Sid as he bottomed out. "This?" And again.

"Yes, yes, _that,"_ Sid keened, allowing little broken moans to escape his throat every thrust. He glanced over at Dubinsky's bed, and the reflections were gone, like he'd buried his head under the covers or wrenched his eyes closed. But he couldn't escape the flesh-on-flesh smacking as Boone fucked him with a frantic pace, or the way Boone was panting, harshly gasping for air amidst soft growls and grunts.

"Play with yourself," Boone commanded through grit teeth, making an effort - albeit a poor one - to stay quiet. "Come for me."

"Yes," Sid allowed the 's' to trail off sibilantly, licking a wet stripe up his palm and reaching one hand down to stroke himself in quick, even movements. It wasn't going to take very long; hearing Boone go crazy always set him on edge, and he teetered on the precipice for a long moment, nearly sobbing in frustration. Boone tilted his angle just slightly and _oh fuck,_ his next stroke was so good, hitting something so perfect, that Sid went over the edge with a loud fucked-out cry, not even pretending to be quiet anymore. Boone's legs were shaking, and he was trying to bite back that delicious noise he always made when he was close, so Sid pressed back again, even as all he wanted to do was collapse in satisfaction.

"Yours," he whispered to Boone. "All yours, need you - " Boone cut him off with one hard thrust, nearly knocking him off his elbows, hips slowing and stuttering as he came. Sid reached back around, grabbing a handful of Boone's ass and hip at his final, shallow thrust and loud, pleased exhale. "Stay," he mumbled.

"Stay?"

"Inside me," Sid told him, because nothing was going to make him feel better than to fall asleep with Boone still inside him. He knew Boone wouldn't stay inside all night, would soften up enough to slip out, but he'd wake up naked, with a thick trail of come down his thigh and Boone snuggled around him, and if he got lucky, Brandon would wake up first, and have to see it.

Boone wasn't soft quite yet, so he was able to wrap his arms around Sid's chest, gently roll them both to their sides, and stay inside. He peppered kisses on Sid's neck and shoulders, and the small bits of jawline he could reach. "God, Sid, I fucking love you. Forever," he whispered.

"Forever."

"You're so good to me." Boone yawned, jaw cracking, but there was a note of alarm at the end of it. "Ah, fuck, Dubi..."

"I think he's still asleep," Sid murmured back, smirking at the blanket on the other bed. No rebuttal came from Brandon's side of the room, even though Sid could just barely make out the blanket moving, up-down-up-down with Brandon's breath, far too fast to be asleep.

"Good," Boone murmured, sleepily, and Sid sighed, content to be wrapped up in Boone's arms, his back sticking to Boone's chest with sweat, his thighs already tacky from spit and come.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the author notes at the bottom when you're finished.
> 
> Also, a few small mentions of suicide here.

Sid wasn’t sure what to expect after that evening. Upon sobering up, he’d realized what a poor idea it had been, and waited for retaliation: rough sex, perhaps a fist somewhere unpleasant. But none came, even though he waited, and waited some more.

In fact, Brandon had roundly ignored him for almost a month. An entire _month_ without having to service Dubinsky had never happened before. Hell, a week had barely passed most times without him demanding at least a blowjob. So, although the nights (and even days) grew steadily colder, and the landscape looked increasingly foreign, it had been a good month.

Tonight, the _Blue Jacket_ was only a few days out from their first merchant take in their new waters. Sid wasn’t sure where Boone was, but Ryan was on deck, curled on the rope coil with him, nose pressed to his head. He huffed a deep breath, and Sid laughed, swatted him away. “Stop, Murr, I’m ticklish.”

“You just smell really _good.”_

“You’ll get your turn.” The merchant had a large load of soap, and Sid was one of the first on board to utilize it, on Foligno’s insistence. _I finally don’t have to fuck a dirty whore,_ Nick’s voice came to him, unbidden, but he pushed it away, turned his attention back to Ryan. “It’s pretty nice soap, though. You’ll see.”

“God, I could use it.” Ryan ran a hand through his stringy hair, in need of a good wash, but tapped the book sitting on his lap. “At least I got this. An actual bilingual dictionary! This will be a huge help learning Russian.”

“Let me see,” Sid said, and flipped open the large tome, looking for words he recognized. He frowned when he saw none. “You said this was bilingual?”

“Yes. French and Russian.”

“Oh.” Sid passed the dictionary back over; he didn’t speak French, either. It was worthless, to him, but he knew Ryan spoke fluent French. “You were at least good enough to interpret between Nick and that merchant captain?”

Ryan nodded, excited. “It was rough, but it worked. I have lessons scheduled with Nick to teach him Russian. I could start teaching you - “

“That might not be the best idea.”

Ryan frowned, reflexively tapping the book’s spine. “Why not?”

“He says I’m not allowed to learn it.”

“Sid, he said _everyone_ has to learn it - “

Sid shook his head, cut him off. “He said the entire _crew_ has to learn it. Not me. If I don’t know Russian, I can’t escape - or at least, I wouldn’t get very far. It’s just another way of...keeping his investment secure.” He could hear the note of bitterness in his voice, moved to change the subject quickly. “Look, just forget that, I have a story to tell, anyway. Tonight, I had to attend to Dubinsky - “

“Is this a good story or a bad story?”

“Good,” Sid promised. “He’s usually a real asshole, but hasn’t dared see me for a month. But tonight? Polite. Didn’t grab my head, my ears, nothing. He even said _thank you,_ can you believe it? You gave him a real attitude adjustment.” Sid gently rapped his knuckles off Ryan’s jaw, pretending to punch him. “I owe you.”

Ryan laughed, grabbing his wrist and wrestling him for a moment. “He deserved it.”

“Who deserved what?” Sid jerked up at the voice; somehow, Boone had arrived unseen, was watching them roll around with a sly grin.

Sid waved him away. “Oh, nothing. Just gossip.” He and Ryan still kept the conversation with Boone far away from Dubinsky. “Hey, did you finally get your shirt repaired?”

Boone twisted, showing off his side. For over a month, since leaving Iceland, one of his shirts had ripped wide open on the seam. Extra clothing was in short supply; the merchant apparently had needle and thread. “Feels nice to not have a constant breeze, anymore.”

“Can’t see under your shirt every time you move, though.” Sid clicked his tongue. “A shame.”

“You don’t have to rip my shirt to see my chest,” Boone growled, playfully, waggling his eyebrows. “You get to see that anytime you want. How about _now?_ Oh, and you - “ Boone winked at Ryan. “You, too. If you want.”

Ryan went a little red. “Are you suggesting, uh…”

“Of course he is.” Sid smirked, knocking his shoulder into Ryan’s. “Come on. It’ll be fun?”

“....alright.”

Boone whooped at Ryan’s acceptance. “Brig,” he said, and then turned to go. “C’mon, c’mon!”

Sid watched his enthusiasm with a smile, grabbing his cane to get up, but was stopped momentarily by Ryan’s hand on his shoulder. “Sid,” Ryan said, quietly, watching Boone’s receding figure head down the steps. “This is all still okay?”

“I think it’ll work itself out, in the end,” Sid grinned, darting a look around and then kissing Ryan’s jaw. “You’ll see.”

~~~~~

_It'll work itself out, in the end._

Sid woke up pleasantly sore and under a layer of cozy blankets. The crew had been requisitioned additional layers, with the weather; Sid and Boone had received one of the softest and most plush. Dubinsky was the quartermaster, responsible for doling out goods, and apparently he still felt guilty about his angry encounter almost a month ago. Which, Sid figured, he damn well should.

It was mid-morning, according to Sid’s internal clock, although he had no light to tell. The porthole was still boarded up. The _Blue Jacket_ had apparently managed to raid some glass from the most recent merchant, however, and he was looking forward to getting his window back. For the moment, he shuffled out of bed - ignoring the angry twinge in his knee - and lit three of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, enclosed in a protective case to prevent a fire.

He needed to get up, but another minute luxuriating in bed wouldn’t hurt. Sid smacked his lips as he snuggled back under the blankets; he still tasted like Ryan, the sweet liquor he’d been drinking, some sort of clear schnapps procured from their latest haul. Still smelled like Boone on his skin. It was nice.

He’d nearly fallen back asleep again - accidentally - when a loud noise jarred him into sitting back up. Cannons booming, the dull rumble of the firepower shivering through the ship. _Another_ merchant? Perhaps Russia wouldn’t be so bad, although Sid’s stomach tended to drop with every engagement. Regardless of all the good things it brought - fresh food and booze, new supplies like soap and thread - it was a harsh reminder of piracy and all the things Sid had stood against as a captain. The screaming, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the senseless deaths and thievery. Not to mention the ever present danger to ship and crew.

Even the post-victories were fraught with danger for him. With a win, those crew members not in charge of getting the ship back into shape tended to have a lot of free time, to celebrate with a lot of drinks. And Sid. One particularly bad night, early on his voyage with the ship, the Blue Jacket hadn't even had to fire a single cannon; the merchant had simply surrendered. He'd been dragged to the crew quarters and passed around like a bottle of cheap rum. That hadn't happened since, but the possibility, the memory of what could happen, always set him on edge.

Worse, Boone was one of the ones in charge of ensuring they were ready to fire again as soon as possible, so it often meant he was scarce, the next few days after a battle. But then again, Dubinsky was also mostly gone, in charge of inventory and counting their new ill-gotten gains.

There was another rumble of cannonfire from inside the ship, and then the bed knocked sideways, squealing a foot across the floor as the ship shuddered. Dust shook from the roof; the _Blue Jacket_ had just been hit.

Sid climbed back out of bed, grabbing his cane, as Stinger woke up and squawked loudly, flitting uneasily around the room from perch to perch. The ship spasmed again, and then _again:_ more direct hits. Unease grew in his belly as he stared grimly at the boards over the porthole. There was no way he could tear them off, and he remembered well Foligno’s words. _You come up on deck ever again during battle, and I will kill you._

There was a loud explosion, somewhere below deck, and Sid's bad knee suddenly collapsed, not only from the vibrations it made, but also the implications. He ended up on the floor, sucking in deep breaths, trying to stop the panic from welling in his soul. He knew that sound, had heard it first when he was a powder boy in the Navy, and then luckily only a few times since then. Either a cannon had exploded due to a bad swab, or it had taken a direct hit, and turned into a fireball as the cannon and its payload were crushed. _Boone. Ryan._ Stinger screamed, and he felt like doing the same.

Sid got slowly back to his feet and stared at the door, trying to control his breathing. He felt stuck - the thought of getting up on deck, seeing what was happening, _helping,_ was almost irresistible. But how could he help? He didn’t even have a weapon, had no idea the battle stations or crew duties to jump in and work. Sid couldn’t assist, but he could find himself dead at Nick’s hands. The choice was obvious, and yet it was a constant battle to stay put. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to orient himself, feel for the ship beginning to list or to sink. If that happened, Foligno be damned, he would get the hell out.

"Hello!" Stinger squawked, even as he flitted about in blind fear. Someone was coming. There was a loud noise outside the door, a _bang,_ and then silence. Sid held his breath, in anticipation of intruders bursting inside, but there was nothing. After a long, hesitant moment, Sid hobbled over and peeked out.

It was Boone. He was slumped on the wall, just two steps outside the door. "Boone?" Sid cried, and then he saw it, the crimson streak on the wall from chest height down to where Boone lay. Half his shirt was soaked in blood, a lurid red bubble coming out of his mouth and then popping as he gasped for breath.

"Sid," he wheezed, one hand slick with sweat and blood, reaching for him. With some difficulty, Sid helped him to his feet, but with his bad knee, Boone's dead weight, they collapsed again only a few steps into the room. "It's okay," Boone said, panting.

_"Okay?!_ It's not _okay,_ I have to get Werenski, I have to - "

"No." Boone shook his head with some difficulty, to emphasize the point. "Stay. No point - n-not gonna make it. M’dying.”

Sid knew he was right, had seen enough men die to know that Boone's wounds were grave, even as a part of his brain gibbered denial, that there had to be something, _anything_ he could do. How could it be that just five minutes ago he was warm, happy, and now...? “What - how - “ There were a thousand, million questions he wanted answered, things he wanted to say. _What’s happening, who did this to you...what am I going to do without you? You can’t leave me._ Instead, he locked his arms around Boone, paid no attention to the blood soaking his shirt as he kissed his forehead. “Don’t go,” he moaned, helplessly, the world going blurry with tears.

There was a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Don’t wanna,” Boone huffed, with some difficulty. “No choice. You go, Sid. We’re sinking. It’s P-Pittsburgh.”

“The _Penguin?”_ It nearly took his breath away. They’d recognize him immediately - if Boone could just hold on, just a little longer, maybe, _maybe_ they could do something. The medical facilities on the _Penguin_ were far superior to the _Blue Jacket._

But Boone shook his head to the question. “The _Pred...Predator.”_

“Oh,” Sid said, in a small voice. The _Predator_ was not a Pittsburgh ship, was one of the major battleships from the country of Nashville. They had similar colors in their flags and uniforms, so it was an easy mistake to make. Nashville was an ally, but they weren’t a close one. Most likely, Sid would soon join Boone in being killed by Nashville officers who saw him only as a pirate, but - Boone did not need to know that.

"Get rescued," Boone mumbled, suddenly smiling, his teeth tinted orange. "I p-promised, eh? That you'd...be free. _Told_ you so."

That broke Sid, and he choked back a sob. "Not without you. I can’t - “

"You're free, Sid," he murmured, and suddenly his head lolled back towards the floor, held up only by Sid's hands. It was with great difficulty that he spoke again. "My neck. Take..." He was only able to move one finger to gesture towards his breast. Sid reached into his shirt, moving aside the fabric matted with blood, and stared in confusion. A necklace - a key dangling from it - it looked familiar…

_Ryan’s_. The jewelry belonged to Ryan. Sid broke the chain, clutching the key in confusion. “Boone, I have it. But what - I don’t _understand...”_ Did this mean Ryan was dead, as well? Why would Boone try to give him a trinket that Ryan had always claimed was now useless, the key to his old stateroom aboard his family ship?

Boone's eyes dropped closed. "The box," he said, words thick with the blood in his throat. Sid didn't know what he meant, but he knew Boone was on death's doorstep now, and he whimpered. He had so much to say, and no time at all to say it.

“I love you, Boone.” He took a deep breath, his voice starting to quaver so much that he wasn't understandable. "Forever, okay?" Boone's mouth tasted copper when Sid kissed him, red smearing along his cheek.

"Forever," Boone whispered. "I..." He moved his mouth, made an 'L' shape, as if responding in kind to tell Sid he loved him too, but then his jaw hung open and didn't move again. He took one last, shuddering breath, exhaled, and then silence. He was dead.

Stinger screamed again and Sid joined him this time, burying his face in Boone's shoulder and howling, tears coming so hot and fast he almost felt like he was drowning. He could barely breathe, a long moment of panic and hyperventilation, and then suddenly Stinger yelled another greeting. The answer to his question - _how do I live without you?_ \- came suddenly, and he tried to calm down with great gulps of air, blood and tears drying on his cheeks.

He wasn’t going to need to learn to live without Boone. Nashville was coming, he was sure of it, and his death was imminent. Sid took another deep breath, not letting go of Boone. He would face his demise without tears, and with Boone by his side.

But no, it was Dubinsky that burst through the door, looking frightened. He was also injured, but not life-threatening, a large cut that ran down his arm, his sleeve soaked in blood. "Fuck!" he snapped, when he saw Boone's body cradled in Sid’s arms. “Goddamnit! Well fucking let him go and make yourself useful! They’re following me, grab Boone’s weapons!”

The ones following him, Sid assumed, were Nashville’s sailors and officers. So they had boarded, then, were on their way. A wave of calm rolled over him. _I’m coming, Boone. Just something to take care of, first._

Boone no longer had any weapons. His flintlock and cutlass were missing from their usual places. Brandon watched as he checked, growling in frustration. "Your cane, then, fucking hurry!" Dubinsky hissed, hiding himself by the doorway. "Stinger, no talk!"

Stinger clicked his beak and fell silent. Sid's grief was converting easily to anger, a smoldering lump in his belly. There was an old feeling of anticipation, the feeling he got as the captain of the _Penguin_ heading into battle, knowing he’d have to kill, knowing he might be killed in return. He gently laid Boone on the floor, climbed to his feet and limped over to his cane, then headed towards Brandon.

"Dubinsky," he tried to say, but his voice was still choked from crying, so it came out as a strangled growl. Brandon shushed him, his eyes still on the door, flintlock at the ready.

Sid cleared his throat. "Dubinsky," he repeated, louder, right behind him now, and Brandon whipped around, teeth bared.

"Will you shut - "

He never finished his sentence as Sid swung the cane, as hard as he could, towards Dubinsky's face. It collided with his nose with a satisfying, wet sound, and he hit the floor, his gun bouncing away towards the corner. Sid surveyed the damage, cane dropping to the floor. His nose was smashed in, a red pulp, and he wasn't moving, eyes closed. Sid wondered if he was dead; normally with an injury like that, he'd be sucking in great struggling breaths through his broken nose. But Sid heard nothing. He wasn't sure if he'd find more satisfaction in killing Brandon with his cane, or having Brandon wake up, 30 feet under the ocean, and realize he was drowning.

He was vaguely aware of Stinger wailing, as if he knew his master was dead, and the sound was bringing footsteps, fast and heavy, down the stairs. Sid backed up to the center of the room, ready and waiting. There were no weapons within reach; Brandon’s gun had skittered under a bed, and his cane had rolled away. But even with no weapons, Sid was confident that Nashville was not the type to take prisoners.

This was not the death he’d ever dreamed of, but then, life wasn’t so accommodating sometimes. “Hold on, Boone,” he whispered to himself as the door burst open. Two men wearing Nashville naval uniforms had their flintlocks pointed at his face. He did not bother raising his hand in surrender or trying to convince them otherwise, just closed his eyes and waited.

And waited.

When he opened them again, one of the men had his gun lowered, and was holding the second man’s arm forcibly in the air so that his flintlock pointed upward. “Nick,” the second man hissed, bewildered. “What are you _doing?”_

“Wait!” The first man shook his head, staring at Sid.

_Nick…?_

Sid’s eyes popped wide. It took a moment to recognize him without a thick beard. “Nick? Nick...Bonino?”

“I _knew_ it,” Nick cried, triumphantly. “Captain! It _is_ you! Pekka, put your weapon down!”

Pekka looked just as confused as Sid felt as Nick surged forward, excited, grabbing him in a hug. Bonino had spent two years on the _Penguin_ ; successful, triumphant years with many pirate ships sunk. He’d decided to emigrate once the American alliance had started to open its borders a bit more. And Nick had moved to - 

Well, Sid wouldn’t have remembered to save his life, but it had to have been Nashville. And he must have joined Nashville’s Navy.

“What are the odds,” Nick enthused, and Sid couldn’t have put it any better himself. “Shit, my manners. This is Pekka Rinne,” he gestured to the tall, grim man in the doorway, still holding his flintlock, “And Pekka, this is Captain Sidney Crosby from Pittsburgh. I heard you went missing, Captain, but I never thought I’d find you.”

“Missing.” Pekka snorted, eyes narrowing. “Looks like a pirate to me. Bones, we’re supposed to be _killing_ the pirates - “

“You don’t know this guy like I do, Peks. He’d _never._ I’d believe my own mother to turn pirate before Captain Crosby. Put the gun down," Nick burbled, happily, and he reached out and swatted the other man when Pekka didn't immediately comply. "Pekka!"

"Very well," he said, lowering the gun. "We will let our captain decide, hmm? You come with us.”

His death had turned into freedom, he realized with a sudden shock. Just like Boone said.

Just like Boone…

_Boone._

“Wait,” he choked, realized he was still clutching the key in his bloody hand. _The box._ Boone had spent some of his last precious words on it.

The treasure box, he realized with a start, Boone’s gift to him right after Iceland. “Wait,” he said again, spotting his cane and scooping it up, then digging the box and its carving out from a satchel on the wall. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see a dark lump, Boone’s corpse, and choked down a scream.

"A trinket?" Pekka sneered, but Nick shushed him. Sid hobbled back over, shoving the treasures in his pocket, and followed them out the door. Stinger got out just as it was closing, a colorful bullet soaring up the stairs. Sid didn't look back at Boone's body. It was just a shell, nothing left, and he didn't want to remember him like that, collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.

The deck was a massacre, and Sid had to be careful not to slip in the blood. He stared, wide-eyed, at the scene; Nashville had been efficient. Foligno was dead by the mast, eyes staring at nothing, tangled with the body of a Nashville officer. It had appeared they'd dueled each other to death. Freedom, then, true freedom, his master never to reclaim him.

Sid’s eyes fell to the gun deck, and a sick wave rolled over him fresh. “Ryan,” he choked, and Nick frowned.

“What was that?”

“I have a frie - ...there was another man sold to the ship. They put him to work in the gun deck, with the cannons. Please, he never wanted this life. Please allow him to come aboard with me.”

Nick cringed, grinding his teeth. “Oh, Captain...I’m sorry. But everyone down there fought like hell, and there’s nobody left. It’s the first place we hit, stop those cannons you know.”

“They’re all dead? You’re sure.”

“Positive,” Pekka noted, dryly, and Sid realized then that his cutlass was wet and dripping, freshly red. He felt sick.

“Get me off this ship,” he muttered. There was nothing left for him here.

They encountered no questions as they grappled onto the _Predator_ , with the battle already won and the Nashville Navy returning to their ship. The _Blue Jacket_ was starting to take on water, and only a short time after they got back on the _Predator,_ she'd already started to list. "Shit," a booming voice came from the deck, and based on his uniform, the insignia, this was the Nashville captain. "Columbus wanted her ship back. Ah well, fuck 'em. No saving that thing now. Is everyone back on board?"

"Yes, sir," Nick told him, tugging Sid up and next to the captain, a hand firmly on his forearm. "We were the last. And we came with a...guest. Captain Josi, I want to introduce you to someone."

Sid tried to keep his face calm and neutral and decidedly not grief-stricken as he faced the confused Nashville captain. "He came from the _Blue Jacket?"_

"Yes, sir, but this is no pirate. This is Captain Sidney Crosby of the Pittsburgh Navy. I served under him for years. He went missing during a battle with the _Blue Jacket_ \- they must have captured him, because here he is. Captain Crosby, this is Captain Roman Josi."

Roman stuck out his hand for a shake, which Sid accepted, and Pekka snorted. "How long ago was this capture?" Rinne asked, with an eyeroll.

Nick tilted his head in thought. "It's been...maybe, almost three years?" He looked to Sid for confirmation, but Pekka cut in before Sid could speak.

"So he has lived as a prisoner for _three years_ on a pirate ship? You and I both know that doesn’t happen. He’d be dead in a fortnight at most. Bullshit, Bones, he had to have deserted.”

Both men looked at him, and Sid’s voice caught in his throat. He felt almost cheated, somehow, that they hadn’t killed him, although the rational voice in his head told him that was his grief talking, that he didn’t truly wish to die. _Freedom,_ what he had now, was what he’d wished for, years and years of wishing and hoping and dreaming, and here it was, even if it was without the two men he loved and cared about.

It was now or never, though, to decide on life or death. Suicide was never an option - not if he wanted to get into heaven and see Boone again.

Did God let pirates into heaven? Boone believed in God, but…

Did God let _whores_ into heaven?

Captain Josi cut through his thoughts and made the decision for him. "Pekka, wait," he said, and his voice was soft, but steely. "He didn't desert. Look at his neck."

Sid had almost forgotten about the collar, the black strip with the ship insignia that screamed _whore._ Apparently the other two men hadn't noticed, either. Pekka fell silent, and Nick audibly gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth. Sid frowned, reaching up and yanking at the clasp to pull it from his neck and toss it overboard, watching it drop out of sight. _You are free,_ Boone's words came unbidden, and he almost choked up again. When he looked up next, Sid saw the sympathy and horror, and a hint of disgust, in Josi's eyes. "Captain Crosby," he said, and his tone was gentle, like he was speaking to a grieving widow, emotionally fragile. That, perhaps, was not too far from the truth. "Please, accept my invitation to be our guest. We will transfer you back to Pittsburgh as soon as we can. Unfortunately, we are at the tail end of a war, so that may not be possible for a few months' time. But rest assured you will be treated with the utmost respect here."

"If you're at war, give me a job to do. I can help." If Sid didn't have something to do, something to take his mind off what just happened, what he'd just lost, he’d be in danger of throwing himself overboard. He would never know if Boone was in heaven, but if there was any chance, _any chance_ to see him again in the afterlife...Sid would not throw it away.

Roman's eyes flicked from his cane, back up to his now-bare neck, starting to frown, but Nick stepped in. "He can help me. I need an assistant anyway."

Josi was silent for another long moment, then nodded. "Very well." Then, to Sid: "Welcome aboard," before he turned, heading off in the other direction. Pekka followed along, staring back at Sid for a moment, wide-eyed.

Sid nodded at Nick, gratefully, ignoring the look from Pekka. He tried to smile, but failed miserably at it. "What is it you do nowadays, Nick?" God, he hoped it would keep him busy, leave him no time to think or remember, just work. He remembered Bonino had been a simple sailor with Pittsburgh, during his time on the _Penguin,_ doing any odd job required of him.

"Captain, I'm the surgeon."

A surgeon. During war (with who, Sid wondered) that would be a busy job indeed. Sid shook his head, holding up a hand. "Not ‘Captain’. Not _your_ captain, anyway, not anymore. Please, just call me Sid.”

“That will take some getting used to.”

Sid nodded. He heard a _glug,_ the _Blue Jacket_ making noise as it sank further, and he bit down another wave of grief. “Nick, I think I may have suffered an injury over there. Do you have, perhaps, something that could dull my senses for a time?” If he could just forget, for tonight, about Boone and Ryan, perhaps he would not wake up screaming.

“Oh! Sorry Cap - ...uh, Sid. Let me check you for injuries.” Nick nodded at his face and chest, and Sid realized he was covered in blood. He also knew that Nick would find no injuries, no cuts or wounds. It was Boone's blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Sorry, gang. I do have good news for you, however. My beta had a bit of a fit over this chapter and is currently writing an "alternate ending" where Boone, Ryan, and Sid get their happy ending. It won't be posted until this story is finished due to spoilers, but it's out there, and waiting. So, lucky you, readers: you get two endings for the price of one!
> 
> I have promised a few of you that yes, there WILL be a happy ending to this story. I wasn't lying. Sid will end up in a good spot, and happy, just...not with Boone or Ryan.
> 
> In addition, we're heading towards some dark, terrible times before the light, so hang on to your hats. (Suicide will **not** become an issue, for those of you that have triggers, although there will be plenty of thoughts about loss and the death of others.)


	35. Chapter 35

“You’re sure I can’t have any more, Bones?”

Nick Bonino scoffed at Sid’s request for additional opium. “You’re not injured, Cap - uh, Sid,” he said. “Not from what I could see. Hell, I shouldn’t have given you that first dose of opium, really, but your knee is pretty fucked. Still, that’s not a short term injury to treat with opium. That’s a long term, I’m afraid.”

Sid bit back an irritated sigh. He’d managed to wrangle a dose of opium from Bonino, but woke up shortly after dinner, so now he was awake and hungry and completely clear-headed. Nick had put a glass of rum into his hands, but it wasn’t helping. Not fast enough, anyway.

The pair were in Bonino’s surgical suite. _Suite,_ perhaps, was a kind word for it. A small room, windowless, with a few chairs, an operating table - which Sid was currently laying on top of, staring at the low ceiling - and medical instruments hanging from the walls, with bandages and field dressings stuffed into sacks. The _Predator_ was possibly better equipped even than the _Penguin._ The bone saws hanging from the wall had fine, expensive ebony handles, and Sid even saw a trepanning kit in the corner. If Boone had only been able to hang on, a little longer…

Sid took a deep breath, tried to keep it together. It was a silly thought. The only reason he himself hadn’t been killed was his obvious slavery aboard the _Blue Jacket._ There was no way they would have let Boone live, no way it could have gone any differently.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go up on deck? A little less stuffy up there.”

“No, it’s alright.” Sid sat up slowly, taking a sip of rum. “Sorry.”

“Aw, s’okay.”

Truthfully, Sid didn’t want to go up and see the aurora, afraid how he might react if he saw it. There was no time for grief, here, not on a working battleship, not when alone time was at a premium. Not when the entire crew saw Sid only as a crippled, worthless ex-whore. He had to shake off that label, and he had to do it _fast._

Mourning would not be understood, he knew. Sid could not admit to having a lover aboard the _Blue Jacket._ He certainly didn’t want to brand himself as a sodomite, not when buggery was a capital crime; it was one thing to be _forced_ to do it, another thing entirely to willingly offer yourself up. Pittsburgh hadn’t hung a man for sodomy in twenty years, but Nashville? God only knew. Bonino knew he’d had a friend aboard, but death was typical on the sea for friends. You raised a toast, threw a glass back and moved on with your life when a friend died. The depths of Sid’s grief would be unheard of for anyone but family, and would rouse suspicion, so he could say nothing at all, to anyone.

“Captain Josi mentioned war,” Sid said, after a time, struggling to fill the silence. “Tell me about it. You’re far from home.”

“Canada.” Sid almost dropped his rum, and Bonino’s eyebrows shot up at his reaction. “They hassled you, too?”

“It’s the reason we - ...the reason the _Blue Jacket_ left the Caribbean. It was Canada. They’re here, as well?”

“Seems like damn near everywhere,” Nick grumbled. “We don’t see much activity up here, but occasionally they swing by and take a few pops. They decimated a major Russian port - don’t ask me to pronounce it, I can’t - and Russia jumped into the war. Dumb move for Canada, pretty sure that’ll turn the tide for us. Anyway, as a show of good faith to our new allies, we were sent up here to help patrol while most of the Russian fleet is away.”

Sid nodded, staring into his glass. “Taking the opportunity to rid the world of some pirates, while you’re at it?” He kept his tone carefully neutral.

Bonino laughed. “Well, we ran into this merchant who pointed us in your direction. Guess you just raided ‘em. We had nothing better to do, and pirates are a threat same as Canada, so...decided to go make the seas a little safer. And thank God, eh? We found _you.”_

“Thank God,” Sid agreed, weakly, shoving his fist to his eye to forcibly stop the threat of crying. He smelled like soap, still. Boone and Ryan, _everyone_ , had died for this soap, this haul, this merchant.

Nick was still chattering away. “Luckily, they say we’re gonna be busier here pretty soon. Last we put into port, a few weeks ago, they say that the alliance has Canada on the run, and they’re trying to flee up here, north. Might get a few good battles after all. Happy to have you.”

“I’ll work hard for you, Bones,” Sid promised. That much he could certainly do, his mind on anything except what just happened.

Bonino’s expression softened, a bit. “Yeah, I know you will. Look, Sid, I don’t know what happened these past few years. You’re a little scarred, I can tell. But you’re safe here. I mean, safe as a warship can be. But not like...not like _that._ Ever again, eh? We'd kill anyone that tried.”

“Yeah, Bones, thanks.” Sid downed the rest of his rum in one shot, and Bonino refilled it from his own flask. “I just wish my, uh. My friend hadn’t been killed. He was a great fucking guy, and we were talking about getting away, somehow, and then...and _now_ …goddamnit.”

Bonino patted his knee in sympathy. “Did your buddy leave you that box you grabbed from the room?”

_The box!_ Somehow, Sid had almost forgotten about it. “Where is it?” he asked, voice rising in panic, checking his empty pockets.

“Whoa, whoa.” Nick held up a hand for calm, went and grabbed a small bag off the wall and handed it over. “Everything we took from your ship is in there. Most of it is gonna be ours - I got some new medical equipment, and there’s a few items from that pirate captain I think Captain Josi will like. But your box is in here, too, and that key.”

Sid whooshed out a relieved breath, digging out the key and the box. The key was still covered with blood, a dull brown tinge now. “What’s in the box?” Bonino asked, curious.

“It’s - “ Sid frowned, opening the trinket box and pulling out the stave. “Just a gift. From that, uh. That friend of mine. But there’s no lock on the box.”

“So why the key?”

“I don’t know. One of the dead men in the room with me insisted I take the key, before he died.”

“Let me see.” Bonino gingerly took the box, turning it over in his hands, inspecting the hinge, the inside. Shrugging, he gave it back. “Dying men say the strangest shit, sometimes. Don’t torture yourself over it. He probably thought it was his key to heaven or some dumb shit like that.”

“Yeah.” Sid took the stave out, stared at it glumly. “You would have liked my friend, I think. He was the only one that kept me safe and sane on that ship.”

“Sounds like a helluva man.”

“They were.”

“Huh?” Nick tilted his head, confused.

“I mean, he was,” Sid covered with a thin smile. “He was.”

~~~~~

Captain Josi found Sid again, the next morning, to apologize about the sleeping arrangements. Captains always had their own space, on the ship; but of course, there was no extra room, and so Sid slept on a hammock in the general crew quarters. Roman was very apologetic about it.

It was silly, but Sid put on a gracious smile and his old, formal captain persona. He thanked Roman for thinking of him but assured him it was no problem, none at all. Although he’d had semi-private quarters on the _Blue Jacket,_ those had come at a high cost that Sid would not have wished on anyone.

Indeed, Sid was grateful for sleeping in the crew quarters. It was always busy, men coming or going off shift, nightly gatherings and parties as the crew blew off steam. As the days ticked down, the noise of the warship and its crew became a constant. Sid wasn’t sure what he would have done with quiet, anyway. As long as there was always something going on, he could concentrate on other things, hold onto the present so he wouldn't start thinking about the past.

The crew was wary and aloof, at first, of Sid's presence. It was pretty obvious that word had gotten around about exactly how Sid had survived those years on the pirate ship, and nobody quite knew how to act with him. Some men treated him delicately, as if he’d break at any moment, some were nervously over-friendly, and others avoided him at all costs. He heard the whispers, in the hallways and mess, when men thought he wasn’t listening, or when he was out of sight. But nobody ever said anything to his face.

Ironically, it was an old nemesis - the Nashville officer he’d gotten into a bar brawl with, so many years ago - PK Subban, that helped integrate him into the crew. There was a large crew party a few weeks in as the _Predator_ successfully engaged and sunk a fleeing Canadian ship, the _Sea Dog._ Sid was pleasantly exhausted; he scratched at the specks of dried blood on his hands from the surgery he and Bones had performed earlier while everyone else carefully ignored him.

“Sidney fucking Crosby,” came the call, and suddenly PK was there with an arm slung around his shoulder, mirth twinkling in his eyes. PK worked evenings, typically, so they had not yet attended a social event together, even though Sid had been on the _Predator_ for a few weeks. “How the fuck are you? You’re not going to punch me again, are ya?”

Sid was aware that the room had quieted as men listened in. He put on his best, cocky smirk, a mask of confidence. "We're at war, Subban. So for the good of the alliance, no, I won't punch you again. After all, Nashville would hate to lose one of their best gunners, if I laid you up in bed for a week."

"Oh shit, listen to this guy," PK hooted. "First, let's deconstruct this, that your punch can lay me up? For a _week?_ But he is right, guys, at least half right, I'm not just one of Nashville's best gunners..."

"You're the fucking worst!" One of the other men shouted, playfully, and then it was like the tension in the air had dissipated. A few men walked over to hear the tale of their bar brawl, and just like that, he was a _Predator_ crew member.

As time went on, more men opened up, like his checkered past had been forgotten, or at least ignored. A month in, the _Predator_ had a particularly bloody battle with Canada’s _Screaming Eagle,_ with Sid working until he was ready to collapse alongside Bonino, bandaging and sewing and even helping amputate a leg. The crew had been impressed, and besides only one or two holdouts, like Rinne, they had embraced him as one of their own.

Sid gleaned more details as time went on. There was precious little news of Pittsburgh or the _Penguin_ , unfortunately. The general prediction from crew and captain was that Canada would surrender within weeks, maybe a month or two; but one month turned into two, then four, then six as additional reinforcements arrived from overseas. The battles became more common, bloodier, as Canada fought against the turning tide. They had taken over the Caribbean, Sid found out, slowly invading ports and island countries, and then had begun strangling the export of crops to America and its allies. Coffee and citrus fruit became scarcer, and scurvy was a constant threat.

Sid missed coffee terribly, but he found himself almost _enjoying_ the war. That was a terrible way of looking at things, he knew; men died. Ships sank. Governments were overthrown. But on a personal level, he was useful again in a way that didn't include his mouth or his ass. And there was a burning resentment towards Canada, smoldering in his belly, the knowledge that their aggressions had set in motion every terrible thing that had happened to him. Sid had never loved killing, but watching their ships sink, their men die...he was not upset over it.

He fell into a comfortable rhythm, each battle day bringing the wounded, each off day leading to carpentry projects. He'd work himself to the bone, until Nick had to drag him away from the work, then drink until he forgot what Ryan’s voice sounded like, forgot how Boone tasted and smelled, and only then could he pass out in his hammock.

It wasn't so much _sleep_ as it was _unconsciousness._ Sleep brought dreams he didn't want. Nightmares, of sinking ships and red, dripping swords and the bottom of the ocean.

He did not touch the trinket box or key very often after those first few days. Sid knew it intimately already, had handled it plenty of times, and there was no keyhole on either the box or the carved stave within. What could it mean? Was Boone simply delirious, the ramblings of a dying man? It was still too painful to think about, and he didn't want the crew becoming curious on those items besides. Things went missing, after all, and if someone stole either the key or the box, Sid knew he'd tear the ship apart until he found it, which likely would not be conducive to his future prospects of life. So he hid the box and the key away, in a sack hanging next to his hammock, and tried very hard not to think about them. Every other day or so, he'd reach into the sack, touch them, confirm they were still there; but that was as far as he'd go.

He began hanging his cane up next to the sack, more and more often, as his knee continued to feel better. Bonino had done some minor surgery on it, during a particularly slow week - _we’ll clean up some of these bone shards, Sid, I can feel them floating around in here._ Despite his terror that what Nick really meant was _cut off your leg,_ the surgery did mean more opium, so he’d assented.

And it had worked. The surgery was not any expertise that Werenski would have had, Sid knew, and he was grateful for Bones’ attention. Bonino was truly skilled. Now, being able to walk with less pain was the one genuine bright spot in his life. For the rest, he was able to laugh, smile, joke, talk, but it was never quite real. He felt like a ship sailing over a jagged coral reef, just feet below the surface, threatening to rip a hole in the hull and sink the whole thing at any moment; like he was constantly navigating away from the reef's high spots which would tear him apart and send him forever to the depths.

Sometimes, someone would tell a bawdy joke, and laugh so loud that he heard Boone's guffaws echo through the room. Some evenings, before he retired to the crew quarters, he saw the perfect aurora, beautiful and green. It was something Ryan would have excitedly pointed out to him, just to watch Sid gasp in delight. Just to see him smile. Every time Sid caught one of those memories, he would pause until he could breathe again, and then drink until he couldn't stand any more.

Only two days before Sid's seventh month on the _Predator,_ word finally came. Canada had surrendered, to the temporary Russian-American alliance, not far from where the _Predator_ was stationed.

That evening was chaos on board with the celebration of war's end. The party spilled on deck, normally forbidden after-hours, and Sid stood resting against the rail, a mug of ale in hand, watching the jamboree around him. _Home,_ people kept whooping and screaming. _We're going home!_

Sid didn't quite know what _home_ meant to him any longer. He hadn't seen Pittsburgh in almost four years. How would they react to Sid, showing up from the dead? How many of his former crew members had survived the war? Would they let him back on the seas, in service again to the Navy?

What would he do if they did not?

There was a dark figure that slid up alongside him, leaning comfortably on the railing with Sid. With no moon, Sid could barely make out the dark features of Roman Josi.

"Captain," Sid greeted with a nod, taking a sip of his ale.

"Captain," Roman returned the greeting in kind, and then there was a glint of white as he gave a toothy grin. "I don't normally allow this kind of...debauchery, you know. But the boys, they deserve it. It's been a long war, Crosby."

Sid tapped his fingernail on the mug, listening to it make a hollow, wooden sound. He'd never said a word about his past on this ship, and everyone carefully avoided the subject. Mostly, he wanted nothing more than to pretend it never existed, but sometimes... "I know. A longer war than I'd ever have anticipated. Canada was just beginning to advance their aggressions, back when - ...they are the reason I was captured. So I have no love lost for Canada."

“Of course.” Roman made a small, thoughtful noise. "You know, I was worried, at first, when you came on board, but there has been no hysteria, or nostalgia, to be found from you. It has been an honor to have you aboard. Pittsburgh will regain a fine officer in you."

"Thank you, sir."

Roman chuckled, holding up his own mug. "To victory. To going home."

"Cheers," Sid toasted, but he didn't quite know how to feel about everything that Josi was excited about. If the war with Canada was over, he'd have to look into fighting the battles inside of himself next, and he wasn't sure if he would win that fight.

He needed more ale. A _lot_ more ale.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Introducing Kris Letang!](https://imgur.com/QcsgXvY)

_Home._ It was an odd night, that celebration on the _Predator._ Sid couldn’t escape the word or the concept; men all around him screamed it, cheered it loudly, alone or in groups. They babbled about their wives, their children, the very first things they’d do once they touched land. They wanted to hug their families, eat their mother’s cooking, hop down to the local tavern and play a little poker. They were excited to see actual _women_ again, thrilled to have something below their feet that didn’t constantly rock and shake and creak.

All Sid could think about was turning around and getting back out to sea. _Land_ had not held anything for him since he was a young boy and his parents had died. Shortly after, he’d found himself in the bowels of a Naval ship, covered in gunpowder, sleeping huddled with the other powder monkeys at night. The terror of the first few months eased into a purpose, a belonging. What would he ever do on land?

Well, he didn’t intend to find out. He would get on land just long enough to find his crew - God willing, the _Penguin_ hadn’t been destroyed - and be back out on his _real_ home, his beautiful ship. With his _real_ family.

The last thing Sid heard before sleeping that evening was Bonino, in his hammock, talking quietly and excitedly to another crewman about his young daughter. _Home..._

~~~~~

The evening after a successful battle was Captain Crosby's favorite time to be alive. The adrenaline, sparking bright throughout the day, had settled into a deep, beautiful exhaustion. There was the pleasure of knowing they’d done their duty, and another crew of brigands was at the bottom of the ocean, never to threaten another life. And the thrill of victory still ran hot.

Through the walls, Sid could hear the party, his shipmates rehashing the battle again and again, reveling in their very _lives_ , which could have been taken during the battle but had not. Someone was fiddling, and there were rhythmic vibrations of dance. Sid had joined these celebratory parties, occasionally, but not tonight. Tonight he just wanted to stay in his quarters, read a book, and reflect. The _Penguin_ hadn’t lost anyone in today’s battle, but it had been close; Schultzy was still getting used to the empty space where his hand used to be. Next time, they could do better.

_Sid_ could do better.

He wasn’t surprised at the knock on his door. “Enter,” he said, knowing full well who stood behind the door.

The door swung open, and there was Kris Letang and his lopsided grin, holding a teapot and two cups. “Evening, Captain.”

“Tanger. You know by this point you don’t even have to knock, right? I know it’s you. I can hear the tea cups clinking together. And you come every night.”

“It’s only polite,” Kris said, moving to set the tea set down on Sid’s desk. “Besides, what if someday you don’t want me to come in?”

“I don’t think that’ll ever happen.” Sid watched Kris’ grin go wide and toothy, then tamp back down to a more muted smile as he poured them both a cup of tea.

It wasn’t just pretty words; Sid genuinely couldn’t think of a situation where he’d turn Kris away. He’d been at sea with Letang for years now, with Kris as one of his most important officers. He took his quartermaster duties seriously, had a good head on his shoulders for advice, and was fierce in battle. More than once, Sid had seen the _Penguins’_ young rookies watch Kris charge into the jaws of seemingly-certain death, emerge alive and victorious, and gained their own measure of courage from it.

More than that, however, Kris was a friend. A good friend, possibly his best. “You’re not hurt from today’s battles, are you?” Sid asked, clutching his cup of tea. It was the perfect temperature. As always.

Kris scoffed. “Me? C’mon, Sid.”

Sid didn’t even try to hide his eyeroll. “Your ego will be the death of you someday, Tanger,” he said. “You don’t always need to be the first to jump over to the enemy ship.”

“Just trying to set a good example for the boys.”

“More like, you get into battle and something happens in your brain that turns you into some sort of wild animal.”

Kris leaned forward with a smirk. “You say it like it’s bad.”

“I suppose it’s not.” Sid sighed into the tea, a welcome heat settling in his belly from it. _I’m not sure what I’d do if you died,_ he wanted to say, but it was terribly inappropriate coming from a commanding officer, although it was certainly true as a friend. They should all, every last man, be prepared to die for the cause. For Pittsburgh. Kris was no different. Instead, he said, “A lion, I think.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you turned into a wild animal. You’d be a lion, yeah? You’ve got the mane for it.” Sid leaned over, brushing his knuckles against the long wisps of Kris’ hair, down by his shoulders. Technically, Navy regulations required short hair. But...there were certain things Sid was willing to overlook. Kris was so proud of his locks, and who did it really hurt, anyway?

“Hey now,” Kris jerked back a little, and Sid thought perhaps he saw a blush in the shadows the lanterns made on his face. “You know, I saw a lion once? My papa took me to see the circus right before I joined the Navy.”

“And?”

“I mean, it was fairly majestic,” Kris said slowly, considering. “But it opened its mouth wide and let the trainer stick his head inside. It was...tamed.”

Sid smirked, pouring another cup of tea. “Tanger, I don’t think anyone will ever tame you.”

“Never say never. Oh, shit, I almost forgot.” Kris pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket, then unwrapped it to show a tiny white sliver. “Look what I found over in that pirate captain’s quarters today. Just one, unfortunately, but...thought you might like it.”

Sid recognized it as a molasses taffy as it was handed over. “Don’t you want it?”

Kris shrugged, in a way that Sid recognized that he _did_ want it. Why he was giving it over, Sid wasn’t sure; he wasn’t the type of captain to mete out punishment for something like hoarding a piece of candy. He decided to compromise, biting half the taffy off and holding the rest out to Kris. “You eat the rest,” he said, as best he could with the molasses holding his teeth together.

To Sid’s surprise, Kris bent forward and snagged the treat from his grasp with his teeth. He honked a startled laugh. “I meant to take it with your _hand,_ not your _mouth,”_ he laughed, enjoying Kris’ cheeks pinking up. Tanger forgot himself, sometimes; Sid knew he was an affectionate person in general. So it seemed to him, anyway.

He finally managed to grind his way through the taffy, and picked up his teacup to wash away a little of the sweet residue in his mouth - 

But the liquid inside his cup was red. Bright red, like it wasn’t tea at all, but blood. “Uh, do you see - …” Sid’s question to Kris died on his lips when he looked up. Kris was no longer sitting in the chair beside him, drinking tea and socializing. Somehow, he was crumpled on the floor, his shirt soaked in blood, eyes staring at nothing. _“Kris,”_ he choked out, shocked, the teacup shattering to the floor as he stumbled to his feet. What - _how…_

“Help,” he screamed, throwing open the door to his cabin and bolting up the stairs. The sounds of the party grew louder, but the fiddling stopped the second he touched his foot on deck, all eyes turning towards him.

No. Not eyes, not really, because every man on deck was a _skeleton._ “What…?”

The closest skeleton cocked his head. “It’s not fair,” it said, and the voice that came out of the opening that used to be a mouth was _Ryan’s._

“Why are you alive, and we’re not?” Sid snapped his gaze to his left, staring at another skeleton, indistinguishable from the first but with Boone’s voice attached to it.

A third skeleton stepped forward, and somehow it was _grinning,_ without lips Sid didn’t know how it was possible, but it was. “We can fix that,” it said, with Foligno’s voice, and drew a sword, dripping with red…

Sid woke up on the floor, gasping, sucking in great gulps of air. He must have rolled out of his hammock; his hip was radiating pain from where he’d apparently fallen on it. It was dark, just a dim lantern in the corner, and it appeared nobody else had woken up. Too drunk, from the snoring he heard. He’d always successfully been too drunk to dream, as well. Why was tonight different?

He climbed back into his hammock, stared into the darkness, tried to will his breathing to slow down. The first part of the dream had practically been a memory. He recalled that battle, the tea, the taffy, and it was true that he’d sat down with Kris nearly every evening to talk strategy, or just...chat. But the second half…

And he didn’t even know if Kris was alive, or if anyone on the _Penguin_ had survived the war. He realized, then, his hesitation at the word _home_. Somewhere in the deep animal part of his brain, he was convinced they were all dead, and it was better to not know than to confront the terrible truth that not only were Boone and Ryan gone, but almost every friend he’d ever had. All sunk beneath the waves forever. Life seemed to have a fierce grudge against him, lately, and this would be just another terrible twist.

Sid successfully managed to not throw up, as his stomach was threatening to do, but it wasn’t til the first crew members began stirring shortly before dawn to take their shifts that he fell back asleep.

~~~~~

It was four days before the _Predator_ encountered the _Hornet_ , one of Pittsburgh’s fleet ships, on their way home towards Nashville. Each night, despite how much he drank, the dreams - no, _nightmares_ \- came to him. Always it started the same, some happy memory: he and Kris discussing a particular book over tea, talking about their favorite parts. Evgeni Malkin, his second-in-command, trying to cheat terribly at poker and having to wear a women’s petticoat for an entire day on a lost bet. Someone playing a prank, the crew laughing uproariously. Yet always, the dream morphed into death, a little different each time, dripping red swords or freshly-fired flintlocks or the icy, frigid depths below. Sid’s unease grew with each nightmare, convinced that it foretold of something terrible.

The goodbyes from Bonino, Subban, Josi, and other members of the crew he’d become friends with made it finally real. Sid was on his way back to Pittsburgh, to open the next chapter of his own life’s book.

He didn't bother getting to know anyone on the _Hornet,_ not when he only expected to be on the ship for a few days. They were close to home and the mood was festive, just as joyous as the _Predator_ , maybe even more so. Sid thought he might see a few guys he recognized, but no; the war had certainly brought a whole crop of fresh new recruits.

He wasn't sure what he expected, when the _Hornet_ rounded into port. New buildings? A completely different country? No, it was still the same Pittsburgh, the same bridges, the same narrow streets and boisterous people. The port city of Southside teemed with life, rowdy with businesses and merchants. In the distance, he could see Mount Washington. The three rivers that fed the sea flowed steady, as always. It was like time had reversed, like he'd never set sail and lost over four years of his life on this last, ill-fated mission. Like nothing had changed at all.

But Sid had changed, even if the country hadn't.

He stepped off the ship with his meager possessions: just the clothes on his back, a walking cane, and a sack slung over his shoulder, containing a trinket box and a key to nothing. The dock was a festival of families and wives greeting their husbands, freshly home from war. He watched husbands kiss their women, cuddle their kids, scream in delight with their buddies, clutching their separation papers in their hands. Sid had nothing and nobody. He was a dead man walking on the dock, and he didn’t know where the hell to go next.

"Captain Crosby," a voice called out from behind him, barely heard amidst the din. Sid squinted as he turned, trying to place the face that was smiling at him from a few feet away from behind a hugging family. It was intensely familiar, but the name…

"Guerin," he blurted out, immediately kicking himself. He hadn't addressed the man properly, but he didn't even know what rank he was, anymore. Bill Guerin been a Commodore when Sid was last on land. Sid took a few steps forward, dodging a pair of squealing kids as they were swung around by an excited, freshly-demobbed sailor, and inspected the insignia on the uniform as he got closer. "Rear Admiral Guerin," he corrected himself, and he realized he didn't have a hat to properly salute, hadn't been issued one by Nashville, so he modified a hand salute. Guerin nodded graciously in return.

"Captain Crosby, it’s a delight to see you alive, if I do say so myself. We were all in shock when we heard. Not many people get a chance to come back from the dead, so to speak.”

“Dead?”

“Officially, you’re dead.” Guerin laughed, as if the notion were preposterous. “Declared dead a bit over three years ago, once the _Penguin_ got back to Pittsburgh and notified us of your missing status. You’re going to have a helluva lot of paperwork to clear up _that_ mess, I daresay. And some hefty backpay, I’d imagine.”

Sid didn't hold out much hope that they were going to issue him much backpay at all, despite Guerin's suggestion. After all, while he’d been in service these past few years, it certainly hadn’t been to the _Navy_. But the notion of pay made him realize he had nothing in regards to money, housing, or any other necessities. As if reading Sid's mind, Guerin continued: "We'll quarter you here on base, until it's decided on your next step. I'd be excited to work with you again, Captain. I do hope you’ll consider it."

"I look forward to discussing my options, Rear Admiral," Sid replied, and everything felt off, like he was wearing a mask of being a proper gentleman and it was itchy and uncomfortable. "If I may ask, what is your current post?”

"I head up the dockyard here. All orders go in and out through me and my team. I always did think you had a head for strategy, Captain. Think you’d be perfect, really.”

A land-based job, then. Sid forced a smile. "I was hoping to get back on the seas, sir."

Guerin made a non-commital grunt. "We'll see. Anyway, enough talk about the job, eh? You must be exhausted. Let’s go get you set up on base.”

Sid trailed slightly behind the Rear Admiral, out of respect, as he walked with him. Sid’s true inquiry stuck in his throat for a long minute; perhaps if he didn’t ask, it wouldn’t be real if the _Penguin_ had sunk and they were all dead. But he would find out, eventually, and so: "Sir...the _Penguin_. My old crew. Has there been any word - "

"Oh, they're expected to dock within two to four days." Guerin smiled back at him. "Captain Malkin will look forward to seeing you again, I'm sure."

Sid tried to keep his face neutral, but his throat felt suddenly very dry. "Captain Malkin? He was promoted over Kris Letang, then?" They were both considered his seconds, but Sid always figured that Kris has a better chance of making captain than Evgeni. Unless Kris was dead.

_Please, God, don't let Kris be dead._

Guerin nodded, obviously trying to find the right words to say, to be diplomatic about something. _He's fucking dead._ Sid bit his inner lip to prevent any unwanted emotion from showing, but the sinking sensation in his gut was buoyed when Guerin spoke next. "Ah. When you went missing, Letang...conducted himself in a manner unbecoming of captaincy. So it was decided to promote Malkin instead. Letang is still on the ship, serving in the quartermaster role."

Sid nodded, relieved. He didn’t know what the hell that meant, couldn’t fathom what Kris had done to prevent a promotion, and Guerin didn’t look like he wanted to speak on it further. But he was alive, Kris was alive. The _Penguin_ was undefeated, and sailing home.

_Home!_ Yes, and then Sid could turn around, rejoin the crew on their next adventure. Malkin could stay as captain; he’d be happy to take an officership. Just to get back out on the seas. He ducked into the barracks with Guerin, feeling lighter than he had in days, perhaps months.

The barracks were not even half full, with many more men leaving the Navy than joining at the tail end of the war. All of the men here were lifers, a short stop on land before shoving back out to sea. After all, there was no need to secure lodging if you'd be back on a ship in less than a month's time. Guerin looked pleased at being able to offer him private accommodation, a rarity in the Navy. Sid accepted graciously, because he couldn't think of any good reason to decline that wouldn't be suspicious, but the good feelings from the news of the _Penguin_ sloughed away. He'd be alone, truly alone, for the first time in seven months.

For the first time since Boone died.

Unlike on the _Predator,_ where Russian alcohol flowed freely, the tiny ration of alcohol he was given at dinner was laughable. It _might_ have gotten him slightly buzzed when he was a cheap drunk, but not now. After seven months with Nashville, his tolerance had grown significantly, and he was going to have to face being alone with his thoughts, completely sober. He couldn't even beg more alcohol from anyone else; everyone in the mess hall with him was a stranger. And they all seemed to be avoiding him. Jesus, had his past preceded him even here?

Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Nobody really looked to be in a talkative mood, not particularly directed towards Sid. The fact that he could no longer correctly read the situation bothered him a lot. He kept his head down and ate the meal, tasting nothing.

He opted out of the after-dinner card games and leisure, although he stayed close to the gathering, reading a newspaper in the corner. Even though he didn't want to join in or interact with anyone else, simply having others nearby, being able to zone out and listen to men having simple, normal conversations with each other was a good distraction. By the time the barracks called for lights out, Sid had read the entire newspaper twice and didn't remember a single article.

The room he'd been placed in was meant for ten men when the barracks were fuller, so Sid had the pick of what bed he wanted. He chose a lower bunk in the corner of the room and curled up under the thin blanket, even though it was high summer now and hot. The evening air was still and humid, and he figured he should have paid more attention to the newspaper, so he'd have something to think about and dwell on besides dead men.

The ghosts came, regardless. Not for the first time, he wished that he'd had the presence of mind to have grabbed some of the letters that Boone had written to him while he was back on the island brothel. He would have loved to have just one. Instead, they were at the bottom of the ocean, but Sid could still see them in his mind's eye, had large sections committed to memory.

_The worse part about not being a good writer is that I dont have fancy ways to say I love you Sid. That I cant just close my eyes and let the words flow, pretty and soft, over how much I adore you. It drives me crazy sometimes. I want to write pages and pages, fill them up with the best devotions in history to you and I cant. I want men to find these letters hundreds of years from now and think, this man loved the HELL out of him, its obvious from these letters. But what can I say? How do I say it? I would die without you. Just know that._

Sid ran through those words in his head. _‘I would die without you’_... “You’re the one that left me, Boone,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m still here, and you’re not.” He closed his eyes, tried to push it away, think of something else. Another letter... _anything_ else... 

_10 THINGS I want to do to you next time we meet (I can’t remmember if you use ten or 10 for this?)_

_One (1). Kiss your mouth._

_Two (2). Hug you._

_Three (3). Push you up against the wall and kiss you everywhere._

_Four (4). Take off your pants._

_Five (5). Listen to you cry out my name, all night…_

Sid couldn’t quite remember six through ten, but he did remember teasing Boone over the letter. (“If you’re not sure whether to write the number out or use its numerical, just pick one,” he’d said with a laugh, “And do you only want to do _ten_ things to me?” And Boone had growled, picked him up, and said, “I want to do _everything_ to you, Sid. A hundred things. A thousand!”) 

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Now, most days Sid felt like he never wanted to have sex again, never wanted another man to touch him, had no interest in women. Boone somehow knew exactly when to be gentle and when to be rough, and Sid had a firm conviction that he’d never feel pleasure like that again, not like what he’d felt with Boone. He missed all the bits after sex, too. Being tucked against Boone, his big arms curled protectively around Sid, legs tangled together. Feeling _safe._ Feeling like he was worth something to somebody.

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_Fuck._ The telltale burning behind his eyes, one that he'd successfully quashed multiple times on the _Predator,_ would not be denied now, alone and sober. Sid shifted to bury his face in the hard pillow and sobbed, cried until his head ached from dehydration and his nose ran freely. Before Boone, he'd never been in love, had never expected to love anything but the sea and duty to his country. It was like Boone had pried open that part of him that he'd expected to be closed off forever, had seeped in and filled it, but now that he was gone, that part of Sid wasn't closing back up. Instead, it just laid open and barren, a raw wound that wasn't healing, a void that he didn't know what to do with.

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He thought about Ryan, too, and his sober brain would not allow him to forget his friend now. With Boone, at least, there was no mystery in his death. Sid had seen the wound, and he’d been around long enough to know it had been caused by a cannon explosion. Shrapnel had been embedded deep in his side, and there had been a chunk of him that was practically _missing_. The more Sid thought about it, the more he was shocked that Boone hadn't simply died immediately, and yet…

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Yet, he couldn't be too surprised that Boone had willed himself to stay alive long enough to say goodbye. There was no other explanation for why he hadn’t breathed his last down on the gundeck. He had unfinished business, and Boone did not often leave things unfinished.

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But Ryan was a great unknown. Was he working next to Boone when the shot came in, when the explosion rained down? Did he die on impact, perhaps taking the full brunt of the blast, allowing Boone to walk away? Was he gravely wounded, bleeding out on the floor as the water rushed in the windows of the listing, dying ship? Or did he hear footsteps on the gun deck, knowing a man was coming down the stairs to end it all? He thought of Pekka Rinne’s dripping red blade and felt ill. It could have been Ryan’s blood.

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Somehow, he knew that Ryan wouldn't have left Boone's side voluntarily, that if he'd been capable of getting to Sid, he would have. If he'd been _savable,_ Boone would have made sure it happened, would have gotten both of them off the ship in exchange for his own life. So Sid preferred to think that Ryan simply died on impact, immediately, without pain. Most of the time he had himself convinced of that as the truth, but on this swampy, sober night, the _what ifs_ played in his brain, and tortured him with thoughts of Ryan, scared and wounded while Nashville sailors descended upon him, skewering him with steel or putting a bullet in his brain. Or laying dying on the floor, a shock of cold ocean swirling around him as they sank, pulling him under.

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Sid had already sweated through the sheets, so he picked up and moved to a different bunk. He tried to put aside Boone and Ryan, to find comfort, as cold as it was, in being able to kill Dubinsky, in the fact that he was a free man and his body was his own again. Tried to find happiness in the news that the _Penguin_ still sailed, that his crew, Kris and Evgeni among them, were still alive. If only he could rejoin them and continue his life's work of killing pirates, he would be okay again. Things would be _normal_ again. He was more sure of that than anything, and so he finally fell asleep to the thought of the _Penguin_ sinking the _Capital,_ himself at the helm, watching Alex Ovechkin disappear under the waves as he screamed and pleaded for mercy that would not be given.

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	37. Chapter 37

Sid wasn’t surprised that there was an immense amount of paperwork to bring a man back from the dead, but it was still exhausting. After nearly a full day of signing so many papers his hand had cramped, his status was finally restored back to what it had been. Sidney Crosby was alive, a citizen and a free man of Pittsburgh.

Once finished, as the afternoon turned to early evening, Bill Guerin took him on a quick tour of their land-based operations. Past the basic barracks he’d spent the night in, the inner quarters meant for strategic planning were beautiful, with spanning ceilings and architectural touches typically only seen in wealthy mansions. Sid perused Guerin’s office, but his gaze kept returning to the desk, and the chair behind it. It reminded him of Foligno’s in its gaudy opulence. Worse, Sid pictured Guerin sitting there, day after day after day, nothing to break up the monotony; no battles, no supply problems to work through, no crew disputes to settle. No danger at all.

He’d go stir-crazy in a month, he knew. This life was not for him, especially not at thirty years of age (he’d confirmed it with the record keepers; years as a slave caused him to lose his grasp on time, the days slipping through his fingers like sand).

The only bright spot of the long day was that Sid fell asleep quickly that night, and did not dream.

He had a meeting scheduled in the morning with the Pittsburgh brass. Not just Bill Guerin, but Vice Admiral Jim Rutherford and, above them all, Admiral Mario Lemieux. It was a lot of higher ups for a Captain such as himself, and Sid wasn’t quite sure whether the presence of so many higher-ranking officers was a good symbol, or a foreboding sign. He rose early, ate a solid breakfast, and then made sure to press his uniform with a box-iron. In his time away, the Navy had replaced the old irons - which had to be heated in the hearth - with a new invention where hot coals could be inserted inside the iron itself.

It was just another small example of the world turning and changing without him. He still wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

His knee felt a little achy, but there was no way in hell he was going to walk into that meeting with his cane. That was a sure-fire way to forced retirement. Guerin had already seen him holding the cane, but had not yet seen him _use_ it; he was hoping Bill would simply think it was decorative.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. The first thing Jim Rutherford said as Sid walked in and took a seat was, “No need for your cane today, Captain?”

He tried to keep his face neutral, not show how much it rattled him. “It’s a relic,” he told the trio. “Not something I use anymore.”

“I see.”

The way they were sitting was almost a tribunal; Sid in a lone chair, facing the three of them in a semi-circle, seated behind ornate desks. He’d only ever seen the set-up for questioning men in danger of being convicted. Upon later reflection, it seemed almost fitting. The questions had started with little polite chit-chat or fanfare. They’d wanted to know everything, starting from the moment he went overboard, and were not hesitant to ask clarifying questions.

Sid answered everything carefully. For the most part, duty and loyalty required his truth. He figured Captain Josi had passed along the details of the slave collar to the _Hornet_ , and that information had gotten back to the Admirals here as well. There was little use lying, although Sid was content to imply his _slavery_ in both brothel and pirate ship had been physical, but not sexual. He told them about tending crops at the brothel. Told them about scrubbing the pirate ship clean, and seeing to Foligno’s breakfasts and teas. Sid knew that slavery held an implication that his masters were free to use his body how they saw fit, but he was certainly not going to detail it in the open.

There was very little deliberation amongst the trio before they offered their verdict. Sid would not face any sort of punishment for traitorous behavior, even though he did benefit and work for the enemy for some time. However, he could not be allowed back on the ocean in any capacity.

“I don’t understand,” he said, trying to calm the frustration roiling in his gut. He lifted his head high, putting on his most confident Captain voice. “And if I may speak freely, I believe you’re making a mistake. I swear there will be no hesitation in my actions, if you’re concerned about my state of mind.”

Lemieux tilted his head. “You realize there’s always a chance, right? A chance that you get captured again. And you’ve made plenty of enemies, Captain. The _Capital,_ to name just one. If those ships find out you’re back on the seas, in our service, it may put our crews at risk as they try to find you.”

“I’m not afraid.” That wasn’t entirely true; Sid would make sure he was dead, no matter how, before he’d willingly go up the gangplank to the _Capital_ ever again. But the alternative, _not_ being on the ocean, scared him even more. “And I had more enemies than I could count as the Captain of the _Penguin,_ so that would not change. Sirs, please consider that I've been in service to this Navy for over 20 years. 20 years of loyalty and purpose and successful missions for you. I was the youngest captain ever for this Navy - for a reason - and have been a captain for ten years now, if you disallow those years that I was not actively on a Pittsburgh ship - "

"It's those years that are the problem, Crosby," Guerin said, gently, his expression filled with sympathy. "Four years working for lowlifes and brigands and criminals. I know you didn’t exactly volunteer for it, but it’s too much to ignore. Still, you're still a valued part of the Navy, and as I told you yesterday, I'd love to work with you again - "

"I mean you zero offense, Rear Admiral Guerin, and I would love to work with you again as well, but not on land. I would be worthless to you on land, sirs."

Mario Lemieux snorted in disbelief. "You're being too hard on yourself, now, Crosby. You will do excellent in whatever capacity we find for you, I have no doubt about that. You understand this Navy inside and out, and we can always use that experience."

"If I'm that valuable, then why will you not put me back on the seas? May I please remind you of my track record, on the _Penguin - "_

"I'm gonna cut the shit for you, son, and be very candid with you." Jim Rutherford leaned forward, hands steepled in front of him. "There is no way your past isn't going to follow you onto any ship we put you on. Every single sailor you command is going to know exactly how you survived those years on a pirate ship. We're not talking a month or two that you were out there. We're talking _years_ of letting pirates fuck you. Of men in that brothel paying to use your body.”

Sid felt the color drain out of his face, his hands clenching in his lap. “I - ...I never said anything about...about…”

“Son, nobody buys a slave for a brothel to wash some dishes and tend to a garden. Especially not one that looks like you and was as young as you were. And certainly trust me that no pirate captain owns a slave without making full use of him. I don’t doubt that you made Foligno tea and polished his boots, but I also don’t doubt for a second that you served him in other ways, as well. He’d get his money’s worth out of you.”

“Jim,” Guerin scolded, gently, but Rutherford wasn’t finished.

“Four years between that brothel and that pirate ship and you’re still here sitting in front of us, Crosby. Do you know how that looks, to still be alive? I’m sure you realized quickly that you would not be rescued. You understood that the _Penguin_ could not look for you. But you still had a choice to escape your plight. Ideally you’d get yourself killed by attacking a few pirates and taking out as many of them as you could before being subdued, but there are other options. Hanging, throwing yourself overboard...but you didn’t take those options.”

“I tried. Vice Admiral, god knows I _tried.”_ It wasn’t entirely the truth; once Boone entered the picture, his suicide attempts had stopped. But he hadn’t told the Admirals about Boone. That was not something they needed to know.

“Not hard enough, apparently. So if we put you back out on the sea, what’s your crew going to think? The only thing we're all thinking: that to still be alive, you must have enjoyed it. Or that you were too cowardly to end it all. So no, Crosby, we're not about to send a _crippled whore_ back out to command a ship."

Sid blanched, feeling like some heavy weight was sitting on his chest, stopping his breath. Guerin was openly cringing, and Lemieux’s face was passive, although he was tapping his finger on his desk, almost like a nervous tic. "But you'll allow a...'crippled whore' to work a land job for you?" Sid asked, and he could hear the insubordinate challenge in his voice, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

"Hell, son, I'm not judging. If you liked fucking those pirates, more power to you." This brought a fresh grimace from Guerin, but Rutherford rambled on. "Sailors would care about your past. But I just care about if you're going to do a good job for us moving forward."

“So demote me. I’ll go out there as a sailor like any other, no officership, no captaincy, just a sailor. Nobody gives a damn about just another sailor.”

“You’d be killed if anyone found out,” Guerin told him. “You know this, but men are not terribly kind to those who they see as engaging in...perversions. Especially being together in close quarters, on the ocean, where, mmm, ‘accidents’ happen.” Bill held up his hands, looking distressed. “Perversions would be their word, Captain, understand that. Not mine. I mean it when I say we would welcome you here at the barracks.”

“I’ll take that risk,” he insisted, but Guerin was shaking his head before he finished his sentence.

“We can’t allow that, Captain.”

“Your decision is final, then?” Sid let his gaze fall slowly on each of the three men in turn; all nodded. “Very well. I quit.” He blurted out the words before he could really process what he was saying, but after they were out of his mouth, he didn't regret them a bit. Knowing what the brass truly thought of him, now...it was an easy choice.

"Crosby, no," Bill said. Rutherford was unreadable; Lemieux frowned and shook his head.

Instead, Sid cleared his throat, drawing himself up sit as tall as possible. "I hereby submit my formal resignation to the Pittsburgh Navy, effective immediately," he repeated, tone authoritative and firm.

Guerin muttered a curse, and Lemieux pinched his nose with a sigh. "You are within your rights to do so, Crosby," Mario said. "But I believe you’re making a rash, emotional decision. I will give you 24 hours to reconsider, no questions asked. Not something I usually offer, so I do hope you’ll think hard about this." His voice softened. "But if you opt to leave...you have been a fine part of our Navy, and I wish you well."

Sid nodded, curtly. “Am I dismissed?” He supposed it no longer mattered, as a citizen of Pittsburgh and not a naval officer. But old habits died hard. He waited until the leave was given, stood, and turned on his heel to walk out of the room. He made sure not to show any limp on the way out.

~~~~~

There was surprisingly little paperwork to quit the Navy after twenty years; a small blessing. He wasn’t sure he could take another whole day of filling out papers and signing his name. Sid let the pen tumble from his hand once he was finished, letting the enormity of the decision sink in. He remembered Lemieux’s words, his offer of 24 hours to reconsider. After a long moment of thought, he still could not dredge up an ounce of regret in leaving the Navy. Besides the fact that his superior officers had actually called him a _crippled whore,_ a land based Naval job sounded like a sure path to a self-inflicted bullet in his brain. That was not an option, not if he wanted a chance to see Boone in the afterlife.

"Sid, before you go." He looked up in surprise at Guerin's voice. The informal tone, calling him _Sid_ instead of _Captain Crosby,_ really hit it home: he was a civilian now. Bill was holding out a hefty purse.

"What's this?"

"A small portion of your back pay. Your pension won't begin for another two weeks. You'll need something to live on, until then."

Sid accepted, staring at the small sack in his hands. "The Navy is quite a bit faster with their payments than I last remembered, or...?" He looked up to meet Guerin's eye and his small smile, which told him that no, the Navy was just as slow as ever. This must have come from his own pocket, then. "I see. Thank you, sir. I'm indebted to you."

"No, you're not," Bill waved that away. "Don't mind Rutherford, Sid. He's a real idiot sometimes. Trust me when I say that we think the best of you, and wish you well." Guerin stuck out his hand for a shake, which Sid accepted with a solemn nod.

"You as well, sir."

"Just Bill, now. No more ‘sir’ from you, eh?" He clapped Crosby on the shoulder, nodding. "Let us know if you change your mind. I know Admiral Lemieux said 24 hours, but...we’ll see what we can do for you. Anytime. I mean it. And if you’d like to send a post when you find lodging, I’ll make sure your old crew knows where to find you. Assuming you want to see them, of course.”

"That would be much appreciated, sir. Uh, Bill. Thank you again.”

He was fairly confident that nothing was going to make him change his mind, but stranger things had happened, and he at least appreciated the offer. He certainly appreciated the willingness to get him synched back with the _Penguin;_ despite the fact that he now knew he would not be joining them, he still longed to see his old friends. It was a scary prospect, that they might react just like Rutherford had, but he knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t see them at least one more time.

Guerin escorted him out of the barracks onto the street, and nodded a goodbye. Then, without another word, he turned and left, and Sid was on his own. _A free man_ , he thought back to Boone's words, and Boone didn't know how right he was. Even before he'd been sold, he was still a kept man, the property of the Pittsburgh Navy since he was eight years old. Now, for the first time ever, he answered to nobody but himself.

He didn't quite know what the hell to do.

Sid sifted the coin purse through his fingers. Lodging was priority number one, he decided quickly. Left to sleep on the streets, this would all be stolen, and he'd feel like a real asshole towards Guerin’s generosity. There was also his belongings, meager yet precious as they were with the trinket box, to consider. He threw his energy into the new mission, buying a newspaper and wandering around Southside to every _lodger wanted_ sign. He was on his fourth viewing when he found the perfect place: right by the ocean, above a fishmonger. The smell drove most people away, and thus rent was comparatively cheap for something that wasn't in the slums. But there was no foul stench to Sid. Apparently, sex work amongst pirates for the last few years had broken his proper sense of smell. 

He stood at the window of his new apartment, stared at the open ocean for what felt like hours, long enough to lose track of time. From his room, he could hear the soft lapping of water at the dock, the occasional rumbling crash as an errant wave tumbled in. He could smell the salt and hear the gulls screaming at each other. It was familiar in a way that was almost painful, although he couldn’t imagine living in a place that wasn’t close to the ocean.

Included in the room was a squat bed - meant for two, so it was large, for Sid's purposes - and a crooked dresser, and he had the ability to use the small hearth and washing tub set downstairs in the back room of the fishmonger's. The toilet was shared with the two other occupants that lived in the rooms above the fishmonger, but that was to be expected. It fit his needs well, and he was grateful for the find.

With accomodation out of the way, and still having a decent sum of money to his name, Sid decided his next obvious step was to get blind, stinking drunk. The _Penguin_ still hadn’t docked, and Sid didn’t know what to do with idleness, was afraid to be left alone with his own thoughts and the prospect of nightmares should he sleep. He took slightly more coins than what he figured he needed to get the job done, left the rest under his new mattress, and set out for the nearest bar, with a quick detour to post a note to Guerin on his new address.

As it turned out, he had quite a selection of taverns to choose from. Until he got drunk, he didn't want to think about anything, and watching men brawl and scream at each other would make a nice distraction from any nostalgic thoughts. One bar in particular was loud and rowdy, already thumping even though the sun was still overhead; Sid could hear a glass shatter inside and a loud, drunken protest as someone took an insult poorly. It was perfect. Sid took a deep breath and stepped through the swinging door.

There would be no dreams for him tonight. He would make sure of it.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [New, short-haired Kris Letang](https://i.imgur.com/M8dsNmV.jpg) for your viewing pleasure.

Sid woke up in the gutter the next day.

As he feared, his money was gone, but he wasn't sure if he'd drank it all, or it had gotten stolen. He wasn't particularly worried; the money had done its job, getting him so drunk he couldn't find his way back to his new home, unable to remember a thing about last night. No dreams, no nightmares, no memories of Boone or Ryan. Plus, knowing there was a solid chunk of coin hidden back home so he could have a meal and a roof over his head was a calming thought.

He picked his way slowly back to his new apartment, ignoring sneers and condescension from people passing, all of them walking with a purpose to shop, or get to work, or deliver items. He was filthy, hungover, and he probably smelled terrible, so Sid supposed he couldn't blame anyone for looking down on him. Five years ago if he'd encountered himself on the street, he would have done the same. _How sad,_ he would have thought, _that man has nothing to live for._

Well, that sounded about right.

There was a notice posted on his door when he returned home, a letter from his old crew, and he ripped it open eagerly. It was a simple summons, a request to meet at one of the local establishments, a much nicer place than where he'd spent the evening last night. Guerin had made good on his promise to deliver his address to the _Penguin_ when they docked. He glanced down at the sailor's uniform that Pittsburgh had issued to him in the barracks, dirty and with a few fresh rips from the evening’s activities, and figured his priority for today would have to be clothing himself.

He found himself in the local general store and was overwhelmed by the choices, felt strangled and choked, and had to stop himself from simply fleeing out the front door a few times over. He'd owned almost nothing of his own for years, but here were goods in every corner, in barrels and boxes and crates of every size, and the decisions nearly paralyzed him. There hadn’t been nearly so many choices last time he was on land and shopping for himself. Why were there _three_ different types of soaps you could buy? They all did the same thing, didn’t they?

Luckily, the shopkeeper seemed to recognize his problems, gently guided him through general necessities. He left with a few consumables, the aforementioned soap, along with hard bread and salt beef and eggs and cheese, and a fresh outfit with new socks and shoes. He picked up a few books to read as well; he had plenty of leisure time to fill now.

Sid returned home with his new goods, and opted to use the full tub for an actual wash instead of just a quick scrub in the basin. Gathering the water to fill the tub was annoying, but he wanted to be impeccable in dress and cleanliness to reunite with his old crew. It had been _years_ since he’d had an actual bath, and he watched the water turn black and filthy; the last remnants of the _Blue Jacket_ out with the bathwater. Glancing down at himself before he headed to the designated meeting spot: squeaky clean, new clothes, shining shoes...he figured he looked like a respectable gentleman, at least.

His eager pace turned slow and then nearly to a stop as the tavern where they were set to meet came into view. Suddenly, nerves hit so hard he could taste bile at the back of his throat, his stomach threatening to rebel and empty its contents onto the street. He was a different man since last the _Penguin_ saw him, but he didn’t want to show them how much he’d changed. Could he still act like his old self, with that quiet, steely reserve of confidence and an assuredness that he and his crew would be successful in whatever they needed to do?

Sid _had_ been successful. Until suddenly, he hadn’t.

There was also the matter of having spent the last few years in less than savory circumstances. The Navy might as well be filled with rich old women for the way its ranks liked to gossip, and Sid had no illusions that his former crew would have some notion of what he’d spent his last few years doing. He wondered what they knew, or thought they knew, and the idea that every man waiting for him had at some point formed a mental picture of him on his knees, bent over by pirates, was nearly enough to turn him around and send him home.

He stood there for a long, long moment, but was finally able to force his legs to move, propel himself towards the tavern door and step inside.

A shout came from the corner, and then it was mass chaos, excited cheers and smiles, whooping and hollering as his crew spotted him. He’d barely taken two steps towards the group when Evgeni Malkin barreled over and nearly knocked him off his feet in a sweeping hug; Sid was no longer as strong as he once was, and Geno had always been a large, towering man. Not to mention the captain's life had treated him well. He was a bit more...rotund than Sid had ever seen him before.

“Geno,” he laughed, holding on tight, and then there were hands all over him, slapping his back, ruffling his hair, his crew surging close to greet him. Everyone was close - perhaps a little _too_ close - and suddenly there was a hand clapping his shoulder, and - 

_There was suddenly a firm hand on his shoulder. Sid startled, but didn’t stop sucking; Werenski would smack him if he pulled off, that much he was certain of. But other men didn’t usually_ touch _him when he was blowing someone._

_“Hey, d’you mind?” It was Seth Jones’ voice from behind him. “I got my shift starting soon, and I haven’t gotten off in a week. He can keep blowing you, but lemme fuck him at the same time?”_

_“Oh,” Zach lifted his eyebrows, but shrugged. “As long as he keeps sucking, I don’t care.”_

_“Thanks,” Seth said, and there were hands all over him, Zach’s resting on his head, Seth’s trailing down his back, grabbing his hips. Too many hands…_

“Hey, give him some space,” a voice cut through the din. “You’re going to suffocate him.” The crew obediently shuffled back a few feet, and Sid finally untangled himself from Geno, trying not to show the brief flash of panic he’d had over the sudden intrusion of his memory.

He would recognize that voice anywhere. Kris Letang stood on the edge of the group, arms folded as he regarded Sid. Unlike everyone else, whose expressions were universally delighted, Kris wore a grim smile, like he knew he was expected to be happy but was unable to properly pretend that he was. In Letang’s face, Sid saw his past peeking out at him. Kris _knew,_ even if the others did not. But Kris didn't show disgust or horror, just a ravaging guilt that seemed to have split him to the bone. He looked as world-weary and thin as Sid.

Sid didn’t have time to reflect on that as he was grabbed in a hug by Patric Hornqvist, and then another crew member, and another. Finally, he got to where Kris stood, but the hug he received was not an enthusiastic embrace of seeing a long-missed friend. Kris clung to him like a liferaft, like it was him that had gone through hell instead of Sid.

"Hey, bud," Sid murmured, clutching Kris tightly, barely able to be heard above the noise his old crew was still making. Kris muttered something in return, but it was unintelligible. After a long moment, Sid was pulled away again, his attention demanded by someone else.

Only after everyone had been properly hugged, greeted, and with a full mug of beer in hand did Sid hear their version of events. To the _Penguin_ , he'd simply vanished, and though they looked long and hard for him, it had been a futile quest. Eventually, they had to return to Pittsburgh to join the war effort. Through the telling, Malkin's expression had gone from excited and eager to downtrodden, looking more like Letang's guilt. Finally, the apology had spilled out of him. "Captain, we had no idea you were still alive, or we never would have stopped looking for you. We are all so, so sorry. We hope you can forgive us."

A few men glanced over towards Kris, who maintained his stony expression, mouth twitching at Malkin’s apology.

"And join us again," Bryan Rust piped up, to cheers from the crew. “To Captain Crosby!”

The toast went up in a rousing yell, and Sid had to wait for the shouting to calm down before he could speak. He offered the group a thin smile. “Boys, you performed your duties admirably. I know as well as you the policies that the Navy has in place to look for men kidnapped or overboard, and it sounds like you went well above and beyond that.” There were another few glances at Kris; what was that all about? “I appreciate it, and can ask no more. Please don't feel any guilt over what happened."

"What...did happen, Captain?" Hornqvist looked distressed, and suddenly nobody was meeting Sid's eye. "We never - nobody ever told us - I mean, there's a lot of rumors, but..."

There was no easy answer to that question. Sid took a long draw from his mug, staring down at the frothing bubbles before answering. “I don’t know what rumors are out there,” he said, slowly, “So I can’t comment on them. But I was captured, and was not granted death. I tried to force their hand so that the _Blue Jacket_ would have to kill me, but...it wasn’t to be. So I was sold, instead.” He could see the crew flicking horrified looks at each other; Malkin’s expression crumbled, and he bit his thumb in distress. Kris’ jaw tightened but otherwise, his expression remained the same.

“I ended up back on the _Blue Jacket_ ,” Sid continued, “under circumstances which are not terribly important, nor do I wish to recap them. I spent perhaps a bit under a year on that ship before the _Predator_ sank it and rescued me. That’s it; there’s not much else to tell.” More accurately, there was nothing else Sid _wanted_ to tell, although he didn’t say that.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and nobody seemed to quite know how to process the news. Sid was able to devise just what sort of rumors were out there based on the stares, the haunted looks his crew were giving him. But Patric was the first to speak again, sounding resolute. "Doesn't fuckin' matter to me. You're alive, all that counts, an' I want you back on board with me. I mean - no offense, Captain Malkin - "

Geno just puffed out his chest. "None taken. We were all lucky, to have served under Captain Crosby, and would be so lucky again!"

Another cheer rang out around the table, but Sid was going to have to offer another painful truth, and this one hurt the most. "Boys, I'd love to. You don't know how much I'd love to, but...they wouldn't let me back out with you. Or anyone, for that matter. They offered me a land-based job, so I...I quit."

"You quit?" Letang's eyes were wide as the bottom of the ale mug he was holding. Malkin nearly choked on an ill-timed drink.

"I'm not taking a land-based job, boys. If I can’t go back out on the sea, what’s the point?”

“You belong out there,” Malkin declared, voice filled with bravado and fury. “With us. I speak to the Admirals, get you back on the ship. My word.”

"Don't jeopardize your position, Evgeni," Sid warned, using Geno's first, full name to snap him to attention, which did the trick. "They didn't sound like they were willing to budge. Plus, you're the Captain now, and God knows you deserve it." Sid knew that even if the entire crew came to Guerin or Lemieux, what would happen when new men were transferred onto the _Penguin?_ They received recruit swaps a few times a year. The Admirals’ decision had left no room for any compromise, he knew.

Malkin frowned. "I still try, but will be diplomatic."

Sid gave him a grateful smile for what he knew would be an unsuccessful tactic, and took another drink. "Let's stop focusing on the bad shit, boys," he roused. "Surely one or two of you has a fun fucking story from what you've been up to these last few years?"

With that, it was like a great exhale, like the crew had been holding their breaths over what Sid had told them and were now given permission to relax a little bit. “Let me tell you about the time that Rusty decided he would be able to smuggle a monkey aboard as a pet,” Geno said, and Bryan Rust groaned and put his head into his hands.

Sid found himself engrossed in the tales that just kept coming, their exploits and adventures over the years he’d been gone. He grinned and laughed and drank and tried to push down the growing regret. He should have been part of these stories. He should have _lived_ them, not just listened to them.

Sid was pleasantly buzzed as night fell and men started to drift away, back to the barracks, with apologies over curfew. The entire crew was still enlisted, and they couldn’t be out late without repercussions. Malkin and Letang were the last ones left in the tavern, and Geno grabbed Sid in one last, tight hug. “So glad you’re alive,” he mumbled into Sid’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though. It’s _you._ The toughest son-of-a-bitch I know.”

“Thanks, Geno.” Malkin was discreetly wiping his eyes when they broke apart, and Sid turned to Kris, expecting a hug from him as well.

Instead, Kris nodded at Malkin. “You go ahead. I’ll stay for a bit.”

Malkin frowned, shaking his head. “Curfew, Tanger. Don’t want to be late.”

“I don’t care about being late.”

Malkin opened his mouth to protest, but Kris gave him a withering stare and his jaw fell shut. “Fine,” he grunted. “Your funeral.” With that, he patted Sid on the shoulder and was out the door.

Kris turned back, his expression unreadable, like it had been all evening. “Perhaps we can get another drink, Captain.”

“Sure, if you’re really not worried about curfew. But like I said, it’s not ‘Captain’ anymore. It’s just Sid.”

“You’ll always be my captain, Sid. Here, let me go get us another drink.”

Sid studied Kris as he stood at the bar, awaiting two fresh pints. His long hair, which he’d been so proud of when Sid was captain, was shorn short. Still not quite Navy regulation short, but nowhere near the long locks he’d had. Sid wondered idly if perhaps Malkin had required that he cut it.

Besides his hair, Kris - previously a stocky, thick man - was on the gaunt side, as if he were coming off his deathbed, having suffered a severe illness. Tattoos wound their way up Kris’ arm where bare skin had been before. Curiously, the tattoos were almost exclusively swallows, their wings bright and colorful against the pale flesh. Sid apparently was not the only one who had changed.

They retired to a smaller, more intimate booth in the corner of the tavern, and both men sipped their ale before Sid broke the silence. “The crew kept staring at you. Looking over, as if you were a powder keg in danger of exploding. I know you, Tanger, and something’s wrong. Are you well?”

“I’m not sick, if that’s what you’re asking,” Kris said, slowly, licking the foam off his lip. “But I wouldn’t quite call myself _well._ When Geno kept insisting that we’d have kept looking for you, if only we knew you were alive - goddamnit, I knew. _I_ knew you were alive, Sid. I don’t know how I knew, but...it’s like the world would feel different if you’d died. And it didn’t. So I knew.”

“You had nothing to go on but a hunch. I don’t blame a single man, and especially not Geno, for his decisions.” Sid frowned, tapping his fingers on the table. “I inquired about you when I docked. Figured you’d be a shoe-in for captain. I was afraid you might be dead when they said it went to Geno. But no, Guerin mentioned something about...behavior.” He was almost afraid to ask the next part, but took a deep breath and went forward. “This likely sounds egotistical, and I hope it is, but...I didn’t have any part to play in you not getting a promotion, did I?”

Kris sucked his lower lip into his mouth, grimacing. “It’s not egotistical if you’re correct.”

“Oh, no. Kris - no - _what - “_

“I told you that I knew you were alive,” Kris said, resolutely. “And that meant I was not leaving you. I was the original acting captain, Sid, and we searched, for...days, months, I don’t know how long. No trace, just gone. I couldn’t find you. I failed.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking sad. “I failed, and I put the crew at risk. We were running low on supplies. Geno, he...it wasn’t quite mutiny. But it was a very strong suggestion that I should move aside and let him make the decisions. And you know what? He was right. I would have gotten us all killed.”

Sid took a long drink, trying to keep the anger down. “I taught you better than that, Tanger. The mission always comes first. _Always.”_

“If I’d been able to find you - “

“But you didn’t,” Sid shot back, and Kris hung his head, cringing. “You _couldn’t,_ Tanger. Where I was, you’d never have been able to find me. Not ever. You didn’t fail, you were in an unwinnable situation, and you didn’t know it.”

“Where were you?” As if realizing the topic might be sensitive, Kris quickly continued, “You don’t have to - “

“Before the _Blue Jacket_ , I was stuck on a lawless island with nothing but pirates and their businesses. A place the _Penguin_ could never dock. There were at least four pirate ships there round the clock. Had you even gotten close, the entire crew would have been killed or worse.”

Kris closed his eyes, looking physically pained. “We should have found a way. You were there, being tortured, and we did nothing.”

“What made you think I’d been _tortured?”_

“Your fingers,” Kris murmured, and Sid glanced down at the digits. They’d been broken many times over throughout the years, even before he’d been captured. But at the brothel, he’d almost always been nursing some sort of injury, and broken fingers were a common one. They were nearly all ugly in some way now, permanently bent or twisted or crooked. On one hand, his ring finger and middle finger were bent sharply opposite of each other to create almost an ‘O’ between them.

“That’s not evidence of torture, that’s evidence of being at sea since I was a young boy. Look at yours.” Sid grabbed Kris’ hand, and he thought he heard a sharp intake of breath from the other man as he did so. “I remember you broke this finger in the rigging, look how crooked it it. And this one was nearly cut off in a sword fight, I see the scars.”

Kris offered a sad smile. “Yours weren’t like this before you were captured, Sid.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember,” he murmured softly, letting his fingers drift along the curves and bumps of Sid’s hand before seemingly remembering where he was and jerking his arm back. “I remember what they looked like before. And your neck is pocked by burn scars, and don’t try to tell me those were there before, because I know they weren’t either.”

“Yeah, well.” Sid clenched his fingers, hiding them under the table, and there was a moment of awkward silence before Kris spoke up.

“When Geno took over the captaincy of the _Penguin,_ and we set sail for home, I had a pretty tough time with it. In my dreams - “ Kris shook his head with a frown, apparently rethinking that word. “In my thoughts, I saw you as a sort of undercover sailor. You were joining pirate crews, making them believe you were one of them, and bringing them down from the inside.”

Sid chuckled. “You have far too much faith in me, Tanger.”

“If anyone could do it, it’s you.”

_Was me, perhaps,_ Sid thought. He didn’t want to ruin Kris’ perception of him - apparently, one of the few high estimations left in the Navy - so he just smiled. “You’d better go before you’re really late. The sun’s already down.”

“Fuck curfew. I’m quitting.”

“You’re not quitting.” Kris opened his mouth to protest, so Sid cut him off. “I want nothing more than to be back on that ship, going out to sea. You have that chance and you’re going to waste it? Kris, no. You’re next in line for a captaincy, and there will be plenty of men retiring from the ranks as the war ends. Maybe you can sneak me onto your new ship, Captain.” The last sentence was meant to be a jest, but Kris looked intrigued all the same.

“There’s no way I’ll be promoted based on what I did.”

“That was a long time ago, and you’re good at what you do. When will you know for sure?”

“If I get promoted or not?” Kris tilted his head, thinking. “The last ship is set to dock in two weeks, and that captain then has another week to make his decision on returning or retiring. At that point they will know how many promotions they can offer and figure out who gets one. So...a month, perhaps less.”

“One more month, Tanger. Can you defer your decision to return or retire until all the captains have returned and you understand whether you’re in line for your own ship?”

“I think so, but - “

“Then do it.” Sid drained the last of his ale, looking Kris in the eye. “That’s not a request, Kristopher.”

Despite himself, a thin smile appeared on Kris’ mouth. “As you wish, Captain.”

“And get out of here before being late for curfew turns into being _fucking_ late for curfew, and then you’re really in for it. Hurry.”

“I’ll see you again,” Kris promised, lingering for a moment and staring at Sid like he wanted to memorize his face, before turning and hustling out the door. Kris still had half his pint left, so Sid drained that and pondered whether to order another.

That answer, he decided, was a definitive _yes._


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to note:
> 
> Up until this point, all male characters have been hockey players (or executives). That trend will continue, but we are introducing a few female OCs (wives). These ladies are not based on real-life spouses; their names are common for the time period.
> 
> Speaking of wives, there will be just a little bit of M/F from here on out. These scenes will be written in fairly short descriptors to move the story forward, not written in lengthy smut chapters, as most porn up to this point has been. (IE, it's a plot device, not particularly meant to titillate. Don't worry, this isn't turning into het smut, but the descriptors will be on the graphic side.)
> 
> Finally, we're delving into drug usage soon. Two points: first, addiction was very poorly understood in this time period. Society would look on an addiction to something like heroin (a drug which does _not_ appear in this fic, but as an example) like today's society views an addiction to caffeine. Those views were starting to change as people recognized the damaging effects of hard recreational drugs, but drugs were ubiquitous and most people used in some capacity (because hard drugs were in a lot of medicine). Imagine telling your best friend you're addicted to caffeine: they'd probably laugh and say 'me too!' It would not be a serious issue.
> 
> Second, all drug statements in both narration and dialogue will reflect mid-1800s views. So when a character mentions that X drug can't be addictive, hey, don't take that for fact.

Sid stayed in the bar long after the _Penguin_ crew had to leave. He thought about his crew, the boys turned into men, men turned into greybeards. They all had decisions to make about their futures. If any of them wanted a chance at a normal life, with a wife or kids, they at least had to transfer off the long-haul _Penguin_ to a ship that roamed closer to home.

But at least they had the option. They had the _choice_ , control over their future, and most of them would never realize how lucky they had it. His mind strayed to Kris, the determined look on his face when Tanger insisted he was going to quit. Kris didn’t appreciate the options he had in front of him, either. Sid would gladly be demoted to quartermaster - hell, he’d gladly be demoted to _sailor,_ if only he could go out onto the seas again. There would be a purpose in life, even if it meant scrubbing the decks and setting up rigging, as he did when he was 16 years old.

He’d been gifted copious amounts of ale and vodka from his ex-crew, so was already teetering on the edge of where he wanted to be. A few more rounds purchased for himself and chugged quickly would do the trick, he figured. This time, he was able to stagger back home, progressively getting drunker as the alcohol worked its way through his system, and collapsed into bed to pass out. It was another night of lost time with no dreams, no brain cells sober enough to reminisce on anything. He didn’t even have to wake up in the gutter to do it.

Sid ended up sleeping the day away, waking up as the shadows lengthened. He cooked himself a basic dinner and ended up sitting in the chair next to his window, eating salt pork and thumbing through one of the new books he’d purchased at the general store. _The Raven and Other Poems_. One of the gentlemen in the store had assured him that the author had made quite a name for himself with the titular poem, was touring the American Alliance and offering up lectures. Sid wasn’t usually a huge poetry fan, but it had come highly recommended.

The first few poems went quickly as he munched on his dinner. They were better than most, Sid thought, and he could see why the author had recently gained some notoriety. The man was touring - perhaps he would come to Pittsburgh, soon?

_Ryan would have loved that._

Sid nearly spit out the last bits of salt pork at the thought. Bad enough he could not escape his ghosts at night; they were here now as well, with the sun shining bright through the window. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” he murmured into the pages of the book. “I’m so sorry. When I prayed for freedom, I didn’t mean...I _never_ meant...this isn’t my fault, okay? Just give me peace for a little while. I won’t forget about either of you. _Can’t_ forget, ever. But I need a respite from the constant thoughts. Just a little time. Please.”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. A poisonous thought had been winding its way through his head for the last few days, that because he’d prayed for years for his freedom, God had answered, brought Nashville to him, sunk the _Blue Jacket._ But that also meant that Boone and Ryan’s deaths were on his hands. He had never prayed for _their_ safety, only his. He just assumed God would have seen his desires, to be a free man alongside them both, that He would offer them all deliverance. How could he have been so stupid?

There would be no more peace today, he knew, despite his pleas, so he gently closed the book, set it aside, and headed out to find a good diversion.

He wasn’t terribly surprised when he ended up in another tavern, the third in three days. Nothing else besides alcohol would keep him distracted long into the night and through his sleep. Sid hated doing it, had always looked down on the fellow Naval soldiers who got back on land and ripped through their paychecks with booze so fast they barely had food to eat. Bill Guerin’s monetary gift was generous, but it wouldn’t last forever.

Still, he was due to pick up his first pension payment in just under a week. He still wasn’t quite sure what the Navy would be paying him. Plus, there was the tantalizing offer of _back payments_ that might show up at any time. Perhaps he’d be okay, at least for a little while.

Sid learned quickly that there was a fine line between waking up in the comfort of his own bed and waking up sprawled out on the street with alcohol. The blankets at home were scratchy and torn, but at least they weren’t the unyielding stone of the gutters. He walked that line carefully each night, in a different establishment every time - he didn’t want to be a _regular_ anywhere - until finally, the day came for him to pick up his first pension.

The noonday sun was hot, and the line of men was long; Sid wished he had not slept in, had instead gotten into line at dawn as it had been suggested to him. He bit back a groan, rubbing his face.

“Long night, eh buddy,” the man behind him said, sympathetically.

Sid glanced back with a suspicious eye. What did this man want? There had been very few people Sid had interacted with since the _Penguin_ reunion that had not had an ulterior motive for offering a friendly conversation. Usually, they were angling for Sid to buy them a drink. “Guess so,” he said, after a long moment to choose his words.

“Where’d ya end up at?” His eyes widened as Sid turned to look at him; he must have seen the critical eye he was being regarded with. “No harm in the question, eh chap? I’m freshly back on land after giving my ass to the Navy for years. Just want a good place to drink. Looks like you might know a few? I tried that new opium den last night, didn’t much like it myself.”

That sparked Sid’s attention. “Opium den?”

“Oh yeah, down on Market Street. Small little joint. Opium was fine, but the atmosphere...too laid back for me, you know? Plus, it’s run by a bunch of Chinamen.” The man crinkled his nose in distaste at that last statement. “I’d prefer gettin’ drunk at a tavern, run by _real_ men.”

Sid quickly offered a few directions to the bars he’d been to already, and turned back towards the front of the line, mind racing. Recreational opium? It sounded almost too good to be true, and he wondered how much it cost. He’d gone through some terrible times and awful pain, and even at his worst, the opium had soothed his frayed nerves and taken an edge off the agony. It had stopped him from thinking too hard about much of anything, and even wrung a little bit of joy out of those low moments. Opium was also lauded as a cure for alcoholism, which Sid knew he was teetering dangerously on the edge of. It sounded perfect.

Even as he resolved to check out the opium den that evening, there was a small nagging feeling. There was still a rational, responsible part of his brain, the old Captain, and it was throwing a fit. _Look at you. Standing here, stinking and hungover, waiting to collect money to blow it all on opium. What’s wrong with you? You’re better than this...you were meant for great things._

Great things. He _had_ done great things. But what could he do now?

_Something else. Anything else._

Like what? He asked that voice, and that’s when it quieted down. It had no answers. He could always get back out onto the ocean via a merchant ship, but it wasn’t the same. Shipping goods was a poor purpose compared to protecting the free seas.

Still, maybe he’d give it a go. But first, after years of hell and slavery, didn’t he _deserve_ to relax, to forget, to take a break from life and duty? Merchant ships would always be there. A few months of leisure would do him good.

Finally, he was at the front of line to receive his bi-weekly pension. It was a smaller amount than he'd expected for twenty years of service, but he really wasn't surprised anymore by the new and creative ways the Navy could screw him over. There was still no official back pay, either. Nevertheless, the money would be enough to keep him under a roof, feed him a meager sustenance, and buy him some relaxation at the opium den, as well. Depending on their prices he may need to do an odd job here and there for extra cash, but as long as he didn’t combine vices - such as taking up gambling - Sid figured he’d be okay.

He nearly missed the opium den that evening as he strolled down Market Street, amidst the last straggling vendors packing up for the day. It was easy to miss. A crooked sign hung above a stairwell leading up into a small room, strewn with couches and pillows and the thick smog of smoke. The place hadn’t existed the last time Sid had been in Pittsburgh, and the clientele was an interesting mix. It catered towards sailors who had gotten a taste for the stuff on the seas, although there were actually more women than men in the place, which was initially shocking. _Polite_ women did not appear in taverns or bars, yet here were middle- and even upper-class dames, denoted by their fine jewelry and flowing gowns. Opium was apparently considered a woman’s vice, with men gravitating towards alcohol.

That was just fine by Sid. Since he got back to Pittsburgh, he found strange men set him on a nervous edge; he’d had enough of firm hands around his hips, rough husky voices growling in his ear, and strong grips holding him down to last a lifetime.

He was pleased to see the price of a hit well reasonable, especially considering the amount of money he had to pour into alcohol to simply _forget._ The pipes offered were extra long, so you could lounge about and lay down on the couches and pillows while still smoking. He was relaxed even before the opium hit his system. But when it did, _oh_ \- the pain reliever was even better without having to dull physical wounds. To Sid, it felt like something had wrapped him up in the best, warmest, safest blanket he'd ever been in, that his physical being ceased in this cocoon, that there were no problems or worries. He wanted to stay in this dreamy euphoric state forever, the lines blurred between sleep and waking.

The opium den quickly became part of his daily ritual. Excepting those days when he had to pick up his pension, he would spend all evening at the opium den, heading home and falling asleep just as the sun was starting to peek over the horizon. He slept until afternoon, rousing and finding food: sometimes cooking, sometimes giving himself a treat by stopping by one of the food vendors dotting the Pittsburgh streets, another new fad that hadn’t existed last time he was on land. The rest of the afternoon was spent either stopping by the general store to restock basic provisions, reading, or sometimes just sitting on the dock, watching the ships roll past. Sid didn’t much like those free afternoons. Too much time for dangerous thoughts.

He'd started to make friends during his nightly visits to the opium den, gravitating mostly towards the women instead of the sailors. From his days at the brothel, surrounded by working ladies, he knew how to gossip with women and keep them giggling. He ramped his playful, safe flirting up another notch when a few of the wealthier women started paying for his hits here and there. He sometimes snuggled with them while they both got high, something their frigid or absent husbands wouldn't do. There were days he had a tough time with even that simple request, that his brain would feel another human being wrapped around him, recognize the soft skin, the petite features, the feminine smells, and ping in alarm, even through the opium daze: _this isn't Boone. Or Ryan._ Another pipe usually brought an end to that reminder, however.

Sid had been frequenting the opium den for nearly a month when one of the older women - Mary, he was pretty sure her name was - gently pulled him aside as he arrived, before he could take his first hit of the night. He felt itchy, wanted to get that first inhale in as soon as possible, but she promised that the first pipe was on her if he'd just listen to her request. She pulled him back outside for a modicum of privacy; because the den itself was on the small side, few secrets were to be had inside.

"Sidney," she smiled, eyes roving to make sure nobody was within hearing distance, "I understand you used to be a prostitute."

Sid reared back, staring at the woman. Had he babbled about his past, sometime in the opium den, when he was out of sorts? "Uh - I don't underst... - how?"

"Oh, my husband. He told me."

"And your husband is...?"

She lowered her voice further. "Kevin Stevens. Do you know him?"

Sid did, or at least knew _of_ him. Stevens had been a part of the famous missions that brought the _Penguin_ so much glory, long before Sid’s time. He and most of the crew he’d served with were no longer on the ship when Sid came aboard, although legends and rumors about those men were still discussed, their heroic feats, their bravery in the face of new lands and dangers. Stevens was doing something-or-other in the Pittsburgh Navy now, Sid didn't know quite what, although he'd always struggled to get promoted properly. Allegedly, he had numerous vices that prevented him from rising through the ranks like he should: women, drugs, alcohol.

Apparently _those_ vices weren’t enough to get him kicked out of sailing, though. Once again, Sid felt a flare of anger, maybe even a little jealousy, but pushed it aside. And of course, Stevens would know about Sid. It seemed like the entire fucking Navy knew of the salacious tale of Captain Crosby's fall from grace.

 _The Navy._ Kris’ face briefly flashed into his mind as he thought about his old life and job. It had been nearly a month, and no sign of him. He must have been promoted. _Captain Letang._ Good for him, although Sid would do anything to be out there again with him. Still, the visual of Kris in a formal captain’s uniform, brilliant black-and-gold tricorne on his head, was enough to make Sid smile.

He blinked, realizing he still owed an answer to Mary, and tried to put Kris out of his head. "Kevin Stevens? I don’t know him personally, but I know the name," Sid told her.

"Well, rumor is you were forced into that life, but you sort of...liked it?"

_Jesus fucking Christ._

His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. "We're done here," Sid told her, turning away to go back and forget this whole fucking night, but she grabbed his wrist, looking contrite.

"Wait! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I apologize if I heard incorrectly. It's just that we're looking with someone with your particular skill set. And we need someone to be discreet, and I think that's you." She leaned closer, on her tiptoes. "Plus, you’re so handsome. You'd just need to fuck me, Sidney. That's all. You'll have fun, I promise. He wouldn't touch you."

Sid tried to shake her off, gently, but she had a firm grip on his sleeve. If this was a man, Sid would be long gone, shoving him off and leaving, but he couldn't figure a way to untangle her without touching her in a manner unsuited for a lady. "No. Not interested. Now please, can I just..."

"You didn't hear how much it paid."

It paid a _lot_. Sid stared at her, arm suddenly limp. "You'd pay that much just for me to fu...have relations with you?" She may have used the word _fuck,_ but she was still a lady. Even after years in the brothel and on the _Blue Jacket,_ surrounded by the worst language and behavior, Sid knew to be more polite than that.

"Well - and this is the part where we need discretion, you see, because of his career - Kevin would be there. Watching us. But like I said, he wouldn't touch you, not at all. No sex between you and him. Just us."

Sid thought back to the odd job he'd done the previous weekend as his money ran low. The fishmonger downstairs had their apprentice boy come down violently ill, enough that he couldn't even stand, so for what seemed like an infinite amount of time, Sid had gutted fish. He knew how to clean fish from all his time on the seas, but it had never been twelve straight hours of it. He hadn't been able to properly move his hand for days with the cramps. And that had paid not even half of what this did.

"When?" he asked, resigned.

"Tomorrow night? Here, our address." She already had the slip of paper, like she'd expected Sid to agree to the conditions, had it already prepared. Sid felt a quirk of annoyance at that, but accepted the address, looked down at the beautifully-written numbers and street name. "One more thing," she looked around again, ensuring they were still alone. "I want you to fuck me hard. Rip off my dress, take charge. You can do that?"

Sid bit back a sigh. "I can do that," Sid replied, trying not to sound as dead as he felt. It must have worked, because she beamed.

"Perfect. Tomorrow, then, Sidney. But tonight, let me buy you anything you want."

Sid was going to take her up on that, because he wanted all the fucking opium this place had.


	40. Chapter 40

It did not escape Sid's notice, as he made the twenty minute walk to the Stevens residence that next evening, that he was exchanging sex for money. Even though the man of the house wouldn't be fucking him, there was still only one word for what Sid was doing. Again.

_Whore._

That's the only thing he was good at now, he supposed, the only thing the world apparently would allow him to do, and it certainly paid better than any other potential job. And although he'd never been struck by feminine wiles like so many sailors before him, women were...well, Sid thought they were fine. Not something he ever wanted, but not terribly disagreeable. For how much she was paying, he would perform to her liking.

It was certainly odd, though. For as much sex as Sid had throughout the years, this was something brand new. He'd arrived, been yanked inside with no fanfare, and a bare ten minutes later, he was fucking a woman in front of her husband. They were on the sitting room couch, and she spat out abuses directed at Kevin, telling him how much better Sid was at sex, describing in excruciating detail how good Sid was fucking her. It turned his stomach, if he let himself think on it too long. But Kevin, it seemed to turn him _on._

When Sid had arrived, she promised something extra if he came inside her; she was too old, pushing fifty, to have any more kids. He wasn't going to turn down the extra cash, so he did as requested. When he withdrew, he watched as she turned to her husband, spreading her legs open so he could see Sid's come drooling out of her. He felt a tick of mild repulsion, but mostly he felt...nothing. Numb.

He waited til they were done and cleaning up, awkwardly standing in the doorway until Kevin approached him with the money. Sid kept his eyes shifted downwards. How could he look this man in the face after what just happened? After what Sid had just done to his wife? He could still see her lower petticoat, ripped and frayed on the floor, from where he’d torn it open at Mary’s insistence.

"We've arranged a cabriolet for you, Sidney," Mary called out from the other room, and she re-emerged with a nightgown on, looking prim and proper and not like Sid had just ravaged her. She was also holding a small, velvet lined case. "And your reward for that extra we talked about tonight. Here."

Anger flashed hot for a moment; when she'd said _extra,_ he figured it meant more money. What the hell was this?

"It's a morphine kit," she explained, opening the case to reveal a large plunger, two needles which screwed onto the cap, and a small glass bottle. "They say it helps with opium withdrawal, and I've found that to be true. And based on how much opium I bought you last night, I’d say you might need it soon, hmm?” She laughed, the soft fake sound of an upper-class woman who doesn’t truly find anything amusing. “Actually, I like it better than opium...but it's a bit more expensive. A special treat. I prefer it in needle form, because it acts fast and there's no chance of addiction, since it avoids the digestive tract. Would you like me to show you how to use it?"

He grunted out an assent; he was still sore about not getting more money. But that lasted only a minute or two after she'd set together the needle and showed him how to inject the drug. She expertly found a vein and injected it straight there, although she suggested he use it intramuscular, until he got proficient at the needle. Almost immediately, there was an odd, chemical taste in his mouth, and then a warm sensation spreading its tendrils throughout his limbs. His anxiety from the evening was discarded a minute later, and he felt euphoric in a way that took an hour of opium smoking to reach; and it felt cleaner, somehow, like the world was sparkling and bright.

“Good?” she asked, looking amused.

“It’s amazing,” he blurted, stepping up and grabbing her in a hug until the _ahem_ came from behind. Kevin was scowling at the sight when Sid stepped back, and he had to find it ironic, that fucking his wife was okay but hugging her was not. Still, the morphine blew away all cares and worries, and Sid smiled at him, too. Soon he was on his way into the taxi carriage with money in his pocket and a new drug kit in his hand.

Being in a cab-for-hire was a relatively rare experience for Sid, and he marveled as the streets and houses flew by with the _clop-clop-clop_ of the horse. There were very few other heavy carriages out this time of the evening, so they maneuvered easily through the city. The warm air blew cool and refreshing on his face with the speed, and Sid sat back and luxuriated in the drug-fueled happiness. He could barely remember why he was so worried and upset on the walk over to the Stevens’ residence. This was _bliss._

He almost didn't want to get out once they'd arrived back at Sid's residence, but he nodded in thanks to the driver and watched him urge his horse back to a trot.

A movement out of the corner of Sid's eye pulled his attention from the receding carriage to a man heading his direction, too fast to not be deliberate. _Mugger,_ was Sid's first thought, and he was suddenly very aware of the large amount of money in his pocket, not to mention holding an expensive-looking case for the morphine. But as the man stepped into the thin light cast by the gaslamp, Sid instantly recognized the face.

"Kris? ... _Kris!"_ Kris Letang stood awkwardly under the lamp, still dressed in a Naval uniform but carrying a bindle which clearly contained his world’s possessions. He offered a nervous smile at Sid, and Sid trilled in excitement, a delighted squeak. He'd have been thrilled no matter the circumstance to see Kris, but the morphine gave him permission to express it fully, and he surged forward, wrapping Letang in a bear hug and kissing his cheek. Kris choked back a gasp, but Sid paid it no mind.

“Sid,” he mumbled, slowly returning the embrace. “Oh God, Sid.”

"Kris! What are you doing here? Are you waiting for _me?"_ Sid's mouth seemed to have a life of its own, and his brain suddenly caught up to the fact that Kris was holding everything he owned. "Holy shit, Kris, did you quit? Why? Would they not promote you to captain? How did you find me?"

Kris seemed overwhelmed by the questions, and something far back in Sid's brain registered that he really did look withdrawn and grim. But he was so pleased to see the other man that he pushed that aside, didn't let it interfere with the warm wave of pleasure at Letang's presence. "I _was_ waiting for you," Kris admitted, sounding a little guarded and ashamed. "I didn't quite know where else to go. The Navy...they kept stringing me along. Telling me maybe. ‘Maybe, Kris, perhaps after this ship comes in, if this captain retires, you might have a spot’...they fucking knew it would be a no since the day we docked. But today it was made official. No captaincy for me. So I’m out. Before I left, I begged your address from Geno. I’m sorry if this is an imposition - “

“Hell no. And fuck the Navy," Sid pepped, feeling as indignant as the morphine would allow. "Well, you have to come inside. Stay with me!" He dragged Kris and his small knapsack of belongings towards his door and was met with little resistance.

"Oh - okay, well - well thanks," Kris spluttered out, allowing himself to be tugged up the stairs towards Sid’s tiny rented room. He let out a small _oh_ as Sid unlocked the door, eyes falling to the singular bed.

Sid followed his gaze and scoffed. “Oh, that. Well it’s meant for two, isn’t it? It’s a marriage bed. No problems.” Sid had shared much smaller beds than this with men, both in the brothel to have sex and on Naval ships with fellow sailors to catch some sleep. Kris had turned a peculiar shade of red, but was nodding.

“No problems,” he echoed, softly.

"Tell me everything," Sid enthused as Kris gingerly set his meager belongings down. "I know we spoke a month ago, but not enough. Are you still that same lion in battle you were before? How is your family? What are your plans - " He cut off with a large yawn, shaking his head. Sid was feeling pleasantly loopy now, the drowsiness starting to kick in, but he wanted to stay awake, to find out everything about Kris.

"Sid, what are you on?" Kris asked, gently, and Sid thrust the box at him, and he took it in his hands, turned it in his grasp with a frown. "Morphine? Are you in pain?"

"Oh, I'm always in pain, Kris," Sid confirmed, flippantly.

"Maybe we'd better get you to bed."

Bed sounded like a great idea, but: "You come, too," Sid urged, starting to strip down. He had decided not to buy any nightclothes, had simply been sleeping naked - who was going to care? - so when he started to shuck off his pants, after removing his boots and shirt and vest, Kris gently stopped him, grabbing his hands away.

"If we're going to sleep in that same bed, Sid, maybe leave the pants...on…?" Kris' eyes had found the Capitals eagle marked permanently in his skin, and he gasped. "Oh, God."

"Yep, blame Alex _fucking_ Ovechkin for that," he mumbled. “This too.” He turned, showing off his back, the raised criss-crossed scars, and Kris put a hand to his mouth and choked back a groan against his palm.

“God,” he said again, the word distorted through his hand.

He turned back and shrugged, the flare of anger at Ovechkin already tamped down to a simmer with the drugs in his system. “Do I really have to keep my pants on?”

“I think it would be best for both of us.” The pink flush was creeping back up Kris’ neck.

"I can't believe you're that worried," Sid grumbled, but flopped down on the bed anyway. There was a brief, fleeting thought that perhaps Kris was afraid Sid was going to make a move on him, based on his previous occupation, and he felt a spike of shame; but the morphine smoothed it away after a few seconds, tossed the offending emotion to the wind for later. It felt like the floor was pulling him down, sinking him into the covers in sleepiness. "Kris," he demanded, holding his arms out like a child. "Come. Please?"

Then he was being pushed, gingerly, and Sid realized he was diagonal on the bed, not leaving room for another person. He wasn't even remotely under the covers. Groaning, he allowed himself to be rolled and adjusted until he was properly resting on his pillow, snug under the blanket, and Kris slid into bed next to him at the edge of the covers. Sid realized through sleepy, slit eyes that there was no second pillow, and was suddenly horrified.

"You don't have a pillow - "

"It's fine," Kris insisted, expression still the grim line from when he’d first spotted the brand. "I really appreciate you letting me stay with you tonight."

"Not just tonight. As long as you want. And it’s not _fine._ Come, come." Before Kris could protest, Sid had shoved the pillow over towards him, wriggling into position where he could wrap himself around Kris intimately, like a lover. It felt so good to be wedged up against someone he trusted and cared about. It had been so long.

Kris was stiff and uncomfortable for a long moment in the embrace, but finally he relaxed, shifting onto the pillow next to Sid. Sid snuggled against the pulse in his neck, beating fast and strong, and closed his eyes, letting the morphine pull him away.

Just before he fully fell asleep, he heard Kris mutter, softly, like he didn't think Sid was awake to hear. "I can't believe you're alive," he whispered. "I can't believe you're here. With me. In my _arms."_

In response, Sid gently kissed the hollow of Kris' neck, barely a brush of his lips. He vaguely registered Kris' sharp intake of breath, his tensed muscle response, but then his brain dumped out the memory as fast as he formed it and he was dragged down to dreams. For the first time in months, it was a content sleep.

~~~~~

Sid didn't want to wake up the next morning. It was awfully bright for the room - the porthole didn't usually let in so much sunlight - but Boone was curled around him protectively, breathing slow and deep and even against Sid's back. Sid felt warm and safe.

_No, this is all wrong,_ his brain finally registered, and he popped an eye open, blearily. Not a ship, not the _Blue Jacket_ \- and, shit, not Boone. He felt a familiar, deep pressure settle on his chest as he remembered that no, Boone was dead, this couldn't be Boone, would never be again. He slowly glanced over his shoulder, blinked a few times at Kris Letang's sleeping face, spooned behind him.

It was starting to come back to him, now. The sex-for-money, the morphine, the carriage ride, and then Kris in the shadows, waiting for him. He couldn't remember much else, besides him feeling absolutely wonderful, and Kris putting him to bed. And now they were spooning? How did that happen?

He scrubbed his face with a hand, trying not to jostle the bed too much and wake Kris. Tried to remember, to think, although his sober brain was not providing many answers. Sid was pretty sure he'd insisted on cuddles. He sometimes craved touch on opium, and morphine seemed like opium times one hundred. Did anything else happen? He still had his pants on, and Kris was the same, he could feel. He'd never allowed himself to look on Kris with any sort of interest; it would never have been proper on the _Penguin,_ a superior taking advantage of their underling. But he was only human. Only a blind man wouldn’t see how handsome Kris was.

If Kris had agreed to cuddle - was _he_ interested? Or had they simply fallen like this in the middle of the night as the air grew colder? Sid pondered receiving genuine attentions from another person, especially _Kris,_ but the warm blush of pleasure at the thought was dashed by memories. It was only now approaching a year since Boone’s death. What sort of man was he to move on so quickly?

His fidgets must have shaken the bed just enough, because Kris was waking up. "Mmmph," he groaned against Sid's neck, and Sid could tell the exact moment he'd woken up enough to register the situation, as his body tensed up. "Shit, sorry," he blurted, trying to untangle himself from Sid's body, scooting backwards on the bed in frantic jerks.

So maybe it had been an accident that they ended up squished together. Kris’ reaction seemed panicked, to Sid’s eyes.

Was he repulsed at touching Sid? What rumors had Kris heard?

“No, I’m sorry,” Sid insisted. “I don’t know what happened, but - last night, if I insisted on getting close or anything...I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not…it’s not like that.” Sid dared a glance up, but Kris’ expression was neutral, maybe even a little sad.

“Don’t worry on it,” he said, eyes darting back to the brand on Sid’s bare chest.

He was unable to stop himself from curling his fingers around his breast, hiding the offending logo. “I just need to find a shirt,” he said, with a weak smile.

“Not on account of me.” Those words seemed to sink in after a moment, and Kris’ eyes went wider. “I mean. Of course, I’ll find your shirt. But I’m not disgusted by it, Sid. It just makes me sad that I failed you.”

“You didn’t - “

Kris slipped out of bed, waving his hand at Sid’s protest, and scooped his shirt off the floor with a curious frown. “Almost smells like perfume,” he said, handing it over.

“On second thought, I’ll launder this. I have a fresh shirt in the top drawer? You can put your things in there, too.” Sid stayed quiet while Kris retrieved a fresh shirt, one that _didn’t_ smell like sex and woman. Only after he pulled it on did he speak again. “What did you hear? I know you heard something. What are the rumors?”

“Does it matter?” Kris snagged the bottle of whiskey from the bedside dresser, took a long drink, handed it over. “We’re done with that life. Done with the Navy. Who cares what people say?”

Kris wasn’t wrong, but he had to know what was behind his sad expression every time he looked at Sid. “Tell me, Tanger.”

“Shit,” he muttered, obviously not looking forward to the discussion. “Okay. Alright. There were a few rumors. They say you came from the _Blue Jacket_ a slave, but your duties there included, uh... _entertainment,”_ Kris said, diplomatically. “Some rumors say you were beholden only to Foligno. Others have you serving the entire crew. But no rumor apparently gets it right, because last time we met you mentioned some sort of island. I hadn’t heard anything about that. Not to mention that’s the fucking _Capital_ symbol burned into your skin, and your back - you said it was Ovechkin. That fucking scum bilge _rat._ There’s no talk of that, either.”

Sid paused to drink more of the whiskey, mulling his options. On one hand, the less Kris knew - the less _anyone_ knew - of his activities these past few years, the better. On the other hand, Sid had already alluded to the brothel, to the encounters on the _Capital,_ and he knew that Kris would never forget it. Even if Sid clammed up and never spoke a word, Kris’ imagination would fill in for him.

Plus, Kris was perhaps the only man alive he trusted to not betray his secrets. “It was a brothel,” he said. “The island, I mean, with all the pirate businesses, where you could never have followed. The one I spoke about last time. When I was initially captured, Dubinsky sold me there under Foligno’s orders. I begged him to kill me, but - “

“But he’s an honorless knave who would sell his mother if he thought he could get a good price for her.” To Sid’s relief, Kris looked more righteously angry than pitying. He wasn’t sure he could deal with _pity._

“I did what you’d expect a slave to do in a brothel,” he said, and now he _did_ see the wince in Kris’ expression, had to close his eyes to block it out. “Please don’t pity me. Or yourself. It was years ago, now. It’s done. And...and it wasn’t all awful. I had a lover; someone who loved me, and I loved him, and made my life tolerable. It’s also how I got back on the _Blue Jacket._ Boone Jenner.”

Sid opened his eyes back up to see Kris staring, jaw half-open. “The master gunner? _That_ Boone Jenner? A pirate?”

“I know. I’d have never thought, in a million years...“ Sid had to stop a moment, suck in a great gulp of breath. It had been the first time he’d said Boone’s full name out loud in _months,_ and it hit him hard, like a cannonball rolling onto his chest. “But I didn’t aid or abet them, Kris. I never helped them pirate or steal from anyone. I had a job to do on that ship, and yes, the rumors are true on that part. But believe me, had Boone - “ _and Ryan,_ Sid mentally noted, “ - not been on that ship when it sank, it would have been the best day of my life.”

“God, Sid, I’m sorry.” Kris set his hand on Sid’s knee, tentatively, like he was touching a stove to see if it was hot. “First, we...we _leave_ you in slavery, and then your lover dies. I’m so fucking sorry. To lose someone you love - I know - I _know…”_ To Sid’s shock, Kris was choking up now, burying his face in his hands so he couldn’t be seen crying. Sid scooted over, wrapping the other man in a hug, and realized for the first time how truly gaunt he was. He was nearly as skinny as Sid was when he attempted to hunger strike in the brothel, a tactic which had ultimately been unsuccessful, but had resulted in muscles that wasted away and never came back.

“Shh,” he soothed Kris, running his fingers through the strands of jet-black hair. Something he had always wanted to do, but never dared.

Kris choked out a self-deprecating laugh. "And here you are comforting me," he snorted, head still stuck in his palms. "What a piece of shit I am."

In a strange way, comforting Kris was a relief. For years, Sid had been the one that needed consolation, clinging to someone else while his world spiraled out of control. Being on the other side of it made him feel a little more stable, even if it was only because someone was worse off than him. He decided the story of the _Capital_ could wait for later, and he noticed the small case set on the floor, next to the bed. His morphine kit.

“Do you remember last night? I was high, Tanger, you were right. It’s morphine. Have you ever had it?” Sid reached down to pick up the case, started unpacking its contents.

“I’ve had opium,” he said, voice husky with the tears. “I never much cared for it.”

“Really?”

“The problem is - “ Kris paused, licking his lips, grabbing for the whiskey bottle. “Problem is, I never feel quite like myself when I’m on it. It’s like a different person has invaded my body.”

Sid didn’t bother to tell Kris that’s why he _did_ enjoy the drug. “Well, would you want to try morphine? It’s not addictive. You could have one hit and if you don’t like it, who cares?”

“Mmm.” Kris narrowed his eyes, considering, but ultimately shook his head. “No. But you have some. I’ll make us breakfast.”

Sid paused in setting up the needle kit, remembering last night. “Ah. With morphine - about last night…”

“Oh, you think you’re going to turn affectionate and touchy and are afraid of it?” Finally, Kris was smiling, although he looked to be trying to hide it. “Take your morphine, Sid. I’ll be here. Do your worst. Or your best.” He paused, huffing a shy laugh. “Well...you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Sid said, returning the smile, grin growing bigger as he regarded the ampule in front of him. Perhaps this day wouldn’t be too bad after all.


	41. Chapter 41

The sun was high in the sky when Sid woke up again, and once more he was tangled around Kris; this time, practically on top of him. Kris was reading a book, arm held awkwardly around Sid’s body to hold the tome, and Sid closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep for another minute. As soon as he woke up, he knew this closeness would end. It wasn’t exactly _proper._

He thought back to this morning. He remembered the morphine injection, doing it himself this time, through the muscle. It took about thirty minutes to kick in, versus a near-instant high from last night. Annoying. Sid vowed to get good at finding a vein.

But once the high did kick in, it was just as good as last night. _Better_ , perhaps, because Kris had been there and the awkwardness of the previous night was lubricated away by the drugs and whiskey, Kris’ vice of choice. He got tipsy while Sid got high. Kris had always been a fun drunk, laughing easily and dancing boisterously and talking to anyone who would listen, and the years at least had not stolen that aspect from him. Granted, the years had taken so many other things that Sid thought of as essentially _Kris_ : his long hair of which he’d been so proud, the healthy heft of muscles, the carefree look in his eyes which had been replaced by something haunted and deep. But in his drunken, joyous laughs there was the memory of what he had been.

What _they_ had been, together.

There was a fuzziness to the specifics of their conversation while Sid had been high on morphine. He was left only a lingering sense of pleasure at the talks, although he did recall asking to touch Kris’ hair again. Or surely, he must have asked - he couldn’t be positive - but why else did the hazy memory exist of lamenting that Kris had chopped it off as he dug his fingers into the short strands? Sid had probably combed his fingers through far longer than was appropriate, but Kris had been polite and obliging about it to his recollection. In return, he let Kris touch the brand. Sid wasn’t sure _why_ he wanted to touch it, but the drug-assisted happiness dimmed his anxiety about it while Kris swept his fingers over the raised flesh, cataloguing the mark with his fingers.

Guilt was starting to seep in a little bit, that he was taking advantage of Kris’ politeness by pretending to still be asleep. Kris had obviously been accommodating when Sid had passed out on top of him, but why? Was it their friendship, or perhaps still feeling the obligations to a man who had previously been his superior officer?

Or...Sid allowed himself a moment of hope, that maybe it was a little more. Kris hadn’t seemed disgusted or shocked when Sid had mentioned Boone or the fact that he’d been in an intimate relationship with a man. Kris loved women; but then again, so had Boone. In the scheme of things, that didn’t mean much.

But Sid also remembered the panic that Kris had when they woke up together. Even if Kris _did_ like men, he knew now about the brothel, the _Blue Jacket,_ all the things that Sid had done for years. How could he expect Kris to fall for damaged goods? Every time Kris touched him, he probably remembered that he was last in a very long line of men that had put their hands on him. Sid couldn’t blame him for being uncomfortable. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to rip his skin off and find a brand new body.

Boone had been special, not something he could expect from any other man. Boone could ignore the whole thing, his position in life and what it meant, even though he’d seen the jealousy and pain in his eyes sometimes, too. Sid remembered once, Jack Johnson had caught him near the crew quarters, pressed him up against the wall, one knee firmly slid between Sid's legs as he whispered all the things he was going to do to Sid that night. Boone had rounded the corner then, come to a freezing halt, and immediately turned to march away. But Sid had caught the pinched look on his face before he'd gone, the flare of fury in his eyes. Later, Boone's hand had been bruised, like he'd punched the wall.

Even if Kris could look past everything - could Sid put another man through something like that? Boone had agonized over and taken care of Sid through great personal turmoil of his own. He could never expect Kris to be willing to take on his baggage, not when there were countless people out there more suitable, including women with whom he could actually start a family and have sons.

Sid could easily see himself falling for Kris when he was ready to love again, if he allowed himself to do so. But he wouldn’t; no use in going through the heartbreak of unrequited love. He would be happy enough to visit Kris in the future, perhaps have some tea and meet his wife, hold his newborn children.

His stomach betrayed him by growling loudly, and he stretched and rolled off Kris, pretending like he’d just woken up. “That was quite a nap,” Kris noted with a soft smile.

“How long have I been out?”

“It’s nearing afternoon. You have some hardtack and a bit of cheese, but nothing to really make a meal.”

“Need to get some buying done, I suppose.” Sid cleared his throat, buttoning his shirt back up from where it had somehow flapped open. “Sorry I - ...sorry for falling asleep on you again. I didn’t mean, uh - “

“Hey, I said before you took your drug that it was okay. And it was. You’re a little lighter than I remember you last, eh?”

“If you want to know true hell, try eating meals on a pirate ship.” That drew a short laugh out of Kris, and Sid smiled in pleasure. “You lost some weight yourself. Maybe we should go see what’s available to eat and fix that? Have you seen the street vendors on Market Street yet?”

As it turned out, Kris hadn’t. Street food was just another new thing in Pittsburgh since Sid had last been in the city, and although he was skeptical at first - food, coming from carts, on the _street?_ \- he found their wares to be tasty and relatively cheap. The only downside was that every cart only sold one or two items, but at least the options were numerous. Kris obviously found it just as surprising as Sid had and marveled at the choices. It wasn’t just food being sold from carts: there was jewelry, tea, fabrics, sewing supplies, and more.

“The best thing is, these curb prices are often lower than market prices,” Sid explained as Kris stopped by a tea vendor, examining the loose leaf.

“What about the quality?”

The tea vendor, upon hearing Kris’ question, puffed up with some indignation. “Better quality than the market,” he said. “Those shops are generalists. They sell _everything._ Me, I just sell tea. The finest! Who do you trust more, them or a specialist?”

“We’ll see.” Kris glanced at Sid with a small smile. “Is your favorite still Singlo?”

Singlo was a green tea variety from China, prone to easy spoilage, and Sid blinked in surprise that Kris knew that fact. It had been nearly impossible to get Singlo on the _Penguin,_ so even though the pair had taken tea nightly on the ship, Sid would not usually have been drinking it. “How did you know that?”

“You told me once,” Kris said, then to the tea vendor: “I’ll take an ounce, then.”

“An _ounce_ \- Kris, that’s not...that variety isn’t cheap - “

Kris waved him off with a smile and paid the merchant, hefting up the little tin in triumph. “For when we get home.”

An ounce. That would make easily ten or fifteen cups, perhaps more if he was careful with the steeping and the leaves. “You didn’t have to, but...thank you.” He clutched the tin, pleasure blooming in his chest. A _gift._ The first gift he’d been given since - 

Since…

The stave. The trinket box. Ryan. _Boone._ Sid felt his smile waver, but plastered it back on and gave Kris a big bear hug, more to hide his sudden grief than anything else. “Thank you,” he murmured again.

“Of course, you’re welcome.” Kris sounded surprised, but pleased, at Sid’s reaction. He was still grinning when Sid stepped back a moment later.

“So, food!” Sid cleared his throat, tone a little more boisterous than necessary to cover up any lingering sadness. “Come on, look, there’s my favorite little spot. Clams and oysters. It’s getting late now, so things will probably be on special!”

Despite Kris’ protests, Sid paid for the meal as a return thank-you for the tea. Right next to the seafood was a cart that Sid had eyed for a week or two, but had not yet patronized. _Popcorn_ , came the call from the vendor. _Popcorn and lemonade with sugar!_

Lemonade wasn’t new, but with _sugar?_ And popcorn was the latest snack fad, but still not something he’d ever tried. “What do you think?” he asked Kris.

“You going to let me pay for it?”

Sid scoffed. “Let’s go halfsies. You buy a lemonade, and I’ll buy a popcorn.”

“Deal,” Kris agreed, and after buying a bag of popcorn and a glass of lemonade (promising to return the actual glass), they made their way down to the ocean to eat, feet hanging off the dock.

“Well it doesn’t exactly go together,” Sid said, shoving a kernel in right after a morsel of clam, “but pretty good I’d say, don’t you?”

“Even the lemonade’s good. I’m used to it just being water and lemons and maybe some vinegar if you’re unlucky. But this is _sweet._ I bet if you put a little vodka in it…”

Sid chuckled. “Sounds like you’re bringing a flask next time.”

“Maybe.” There was a comfortable silence as Kris licked the salt off his fingers before speaking next. “So. It’s been a month or so since you quit, right? What have you been up to since then?”

"Mmm." Sid was embarrassed to admit it now, talking to another person, about his life of relative idleness over the past month. He _certainly_ was not going to mention the previous evening’s activities; he planned for that to be a one-and-done thing, anyway. "Odd jobs here and there. Most nights I go have a smoke at the opium parlor."

"A pursuit of leisure, eh? That doesn't sound like the Captain Crosby I know. I figured you’d be running for mayor by now." It was obvious from Kris' smile that he intended for it to be a joke, but it still stung a little.

"It hasn't been Captain Crosby for years. Things have changed. And I’d make a shit politician."

"Right, of course." Kris picked up the popcorn bag, searching for another kernel, avoiding Sid's eyes. "Were you planning to go tonight?"

"Where - the opium parlor? Well, yeah. That's what I usually do."

"Stay?" Kris jerked his eyes for a moment to meet Sid's, then back down to the popcorn. "I mean, maybe skip tonight and stay with me, if you don't have your heart set on going? We could just...talk, and...it'll be nice. I'll buy another bottle of whiskey, and we can share it. Or maybe we can try out your new tea, eh?"

Sid chewed on his lip for a moment. He'd gotten used to opium sliding him through the night, gentle and sweet, with no nightmares or memories to contend with. "For tonight," he finally agreed. “So what do you intend to do now that you’re - ahem - retired?”

“Retired. Huh.” Kris huffed, picking at the last of the kernels. “You said...you said, last night, I could stay with you. For as long as I want. Is that offer still on the table?”

“Of course.”

“Then I'll be here with you. As to the specifics, I think I'll take a few weeks off until my first pension payment, see how much it is, then figure out what work I need to do to get by. God willing, maybe I’ll even find something _interesting_ to do. Fulfilling. My brother’s a mailman, and seems to enjoy his job. Or maybe back out on the water, fishing, an honest day’s work, eh?”

Both of those options sounded absolutely terrible to Sid, but he didn’t voice it. “An honest day’s work,” he agreed. “But I’m the same. I figure I deserve a little bit of off time after...well, you know.”

“Shit,” Kris muttered, suddenly looking very ashamed. “I didn’t mean to imply - earlier, I mean, when I said - “

“It’s nothing.”

“No, but the comment about _leisure_. Of course, you haven’t had a fucking day off for God knows how long, I’m an idiot - “

“It’s fine. Kris, it’s _fine.”_ Sid put his hand on Kris’ wrist, which shut him up immediately. “Let’s just have a few weeks of...leisure...and then after that, who knows, we’ll see. Sound good?”

“You’re okay with spending those days with me?”

“Kris, I can’t think of another person I’d want to spend it with.”

Kris smiled, a brilliant joyous thing, which Sid found himself copying despite himself. They stood, tossed their trash into the ocean to discard it, and headed back home.

~~~~~

Sid felt a little itchy that evening without the opium or the morphine, but the whiskey helped. They shared it straight from the bottle, no glasses, and were soon laughing and chatting freely, lounging on the bed.

“You should see them, Kris,” Sid enthused, telling a story about Iceland and the northern lights, although he carefully avoided what he’d actually been doing last time he was in Iceland: laid up in bed, half dead from Ovechkin. “They’re beautiful. I mean, I could watch them all night, gently rolling like waves in the sky, but so colorful. Greens, reds, blues, and - oh, I saw purple a few times!”

“You know purple is just blue and red mixed together, right?”

“Oh. You’re right. That explains a lot!” This was followed by a round of laughter and a fresh swig from the bottle by both men. Sid sighed as he leaned back against the wall, sloshing around the rest of the liquid. "All we're gonna see here in Pittsburgh is just blank sky.”

“Nothing like the open ocean, eh?"

"Can't see through the street lights. I always loved going on deck, and looking up. Millions of stars and inky blackness, and then there's you, alone on the open ocean. Well, felt like you were alone most nights, anyway."

Kris smirked. "That was the problem, wasn't it? Being alone? And it was too damn hard to find any other ship, specifically - "

"Pirates," they finished together, laughing.

Sid let the smile fade, sliding down the wall where he'd been resting until he thunked onto the pillow. "Sometimes I think I’d do anything to go back,” he admittedly, softly. “To what we were. Our old life. You and me, drinking tea in the evening on the _Penguin,_ chatting about strategy and war stories and our hopes for the future. This isn’t the future I expected.”

“No. Me either. Remember when we thought there’d be a day, you and me, at one of the military balls? You’d be an Admiral, and I’d be a Captain, and we’d smile and introduce our new wives and toast with a nice vintage wine to our success.”

Sid couldn’t quite ever remember saying anything about a _wife,_ although he always had expected to get married, for propriety's sake at least. It wouldn’t have looked good to have a bachelor Admiral, not when such men were in high demand amongst eligible women. “I never did want to get into fancy dress anyway, I suppose.”

“No, not fancy dress. That’s my thing. But the good food, the good company, a content life. That’s what you wanted. But you know what, Sid? We ate pretty well today, and I wouldn’t trade the present company for the world, so maybe...maybe we can make it after all. Our own future, you know?”

“You really do want to stay with me.” Sid tried to tamp down his surprise. When Kris had mentioned it earlier, he figured it was an idle, off-the-cuff statement. Just until something better came along. But Kris was talking like this was for the long run.

"Well - well, yeah." Kris swallowed, thickly. "That's - you haven't changed your mind on it, have you? It's still okay?"

"More than okay," Sid insisted. “For as long as you want. I know sometime, probably soon, you’ll want to find a nice girl and settle down. But until you do, you’re welcome with me.”

Kris held out his hand for the whiskey, and took a long drink before speaking next. “Settle down with a nice girl, huh? Well...maybe it’ll happen. But maybe it won’t. Maybe it’ll be just us. And that would be okay with me.”

_Just us._ It was a nearly inconceivable notion, and Sid didn’t know what to think about it. Why would Kris want to do that? He was practically speaking about _settling down_ together. The silence was yawning wider now, so to cover, Sid patted the pillow he was resting on. “You know what we need to do tomorrow? Get you a pillow.”

That response seemed to please Kris, and he nodded. “Probably should, eh?”

“Definitely.” Sid thought back to the flinches and tensing away at a few of his touches over the course of the day. Kris would be happy to have his own space on the bed, he figured. Not be forced to curl up right next to Sid.

“It’s kind of exciting. Feels a little more permanent, you know? Having both my things and your things here in this space,” Kris said, and Sid found himself speechless again for not the first time that day.

_A little more permanent._ That meant Kris was excited to get his own pillow not to get away from Sid, but to continue to _stay_ with Sid. The notion felt foreign. And permanence, _stability,_ was something he hadn’t had in awhile; not any sort of stability he wanted, at least. The brothel and _Blue Jacket_ had been the same, day-in and day-out, but there always lingered a hefty amount of uncertainty in his fate. Here, Kris was practically offering his future up. A willingness to stay, to continue to exist within Sid’s orbit. Perhaps he found Sid worthwhile, although he couldn’t imagine why.

Sid expected him to change his mind someday, but for now he would enjoy it.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta told me a few times that this chapter is particularly dark, so here is your warning as well!

Sid didn’t want to admit it, but the general store was an intimidating place to him.

Intimidating only to him, it seemed; other people, both men and women, freely bustled out of the store, laughing and chatting with each other. Kris seemed excited to make the trip as well. “Look at this place. It’s so much bigger than it was when I was last on land!” he exclaimed as they drew close, and Sid’s stomach twisted at that proclamation. It was _too_ big, in his mind, but it was by far the closest general store, and Sid couldn’t readily think of any excuse not to go in. Besides, rumor had it that the next closest store was even bigger.

The entire trip was stressful for reasons that Sid couldn’t quite comprehend. A visit to the general store should have been exhilarating, the ultimate taste of freedom. After all, Sid had neither money nor possessions to his name for years. He didn’t have the ability to make a true decision for himself; he didn’t have _choices._ At the general store he had all these things, things he’d dreamt about reclaiming for years and years. So why now did it all seem so overwhelming?

Kris surged ahead, flitting from display to display, and Sid was grateful to let him lead. “Look at this, Sid, a _cushion_ for chairs. I bet this would make our old creaky stool a little more comfortable, eh? Check out all the colors! What do you think would go best in our room?” Kris flourished at the little color swaths - the cushions would be sewn on-site, once the fabric and color were chosen - and Sid went a little pale. There were so _many._

“That’s a lot of options,” he said, slowly. Woolen greens, linen blues, expensive silky whites...how were people to choose? What criteria did they use?

Kris didn’t seem to register his hesitance. “Right, isn’t it amazing? Although - “ Kris checked the prices, chewed on his lip for a moment. “I suppose it’s a luxury. We don’t really _need_ it. We could simply use your pillow - or mine - for a seat cushion. Let’s go look at pillows, then.”

Sid checked the prices of the cushions as they went past and his eyes went wide. Even the simplest and most basic fabrics were expensive. And for what, something to make your seat just a little bit softer?

But Sid could tell, as they moved through the store, that Kris was a man of fine tastes. He stopped to admire a beautiful painting of a seascape, not even bothering to check the price, but giving a longing little sigh at the art. He trailed his fingers through the silk window hangings on display. He gasped at the tulips and other delicate flowers imported from far-away places. He kept up a soft stream of commentary at each stop: _look at how well this artist captured the sea,_ or _can you believe how bright yellow this flower is?_ or, _God, Sid, just_ feel _how soft this is._ The fact that the pair clearly couldn’t afford any of it didn’t seem to bother him _too_ much; he was just enjoying the browsing.

Sid longed to give him something, a return from the tea gift he’d received earlier from Kris, but everything he was eyeing was an expensive luxury good. Maybe someday, Sid thought to himself. Someday, somehow.

Finally, they stopped in front of the pillows, and although Kris made sure to trail his fingers over the soft silken and feather down offerings with a pleased hum, he quickly turned to the cheap cotton pillows. There were a few varieties, ranging from firmer to softer depending on quality, and Kris made a show of pushing on all of them, testing the quality. “Sid, what do you think?” he asked, but Sid just hesitated, staring at all the options.

“I - I, um.”

Kris’ gaze softened, now seeming to recognize that Sid was overwhelmed. “You can touch them. Here,” he said, softly, grabbing Sid’s hand and pulling it to one of the pillows. The first one was firm, almost hard; the second, just a little softer; and on down the line, with Kris gently guiding his wrist to each option for a couple seconds. Finally, they reached the last one, which was _too_ soft, not a good candidate at all in his mind, but Sid found he didn’t want to pull away, with Kris’ hand a warm weight around his wrist. It felt comforting. Grounding.

Kris cleared his throat and suddenly snatched his hand back, expression unreadable. “Sorry, um...did you like this one, then?”

“Oh,” Sid said, feeling guilty at the lingering touch. “I mean, it’s your pillow. Your choice.”

“I’d like to know what you think. Just in case, uh, you...I mean...if you ever wanted to trade,” Kris said, shading a little red as he finished the sentence.

“That one is…” Sid took a deep breath, fighting the urge to _take what you can get,_ because that no longer applied in this situation. He didn’t have to _settle_ for anything anymore. His mind just wasn’t quite convinced of that yet, after the brothel, and the _Blue Jacket,_ and even the Navy, where he wasn’t abused but was still offered little to no choice in anything. “That one is too soft. And the one on the left, too hard. Any of the other ones are pretty nice, though.”

“That sounds good. Yes, I agree. Maybe this one right in the middle. Not too soft, not too hard...just right, eh?”

They ended up purchasing the pillow, a newspaper subscription for their flat, food supplies, whiskey for Kris, and morphine for Sid. They split the cost down the middle except for Sid’s morphine; it was, as Mary said, significantly more expensive than opium, and Sid didn’t want Kris to pay for a penny of it. But opium wasn’t an option anyway. The general store didn’t sell straight opium like they did with morphine, and besides, it was worth the premium. He still had a little extra cash from Guerin’s gift offering. On this, he could splurge a little bit.

They settled into a comfortable routine for their two weeks of leisure before they would find out the amount of Kris’ pension payment and see what sort of jobs would be needed to sustain them. In the evenings, they burned a hazy candle, the window half cracked open for the smoke, listening to the sounds of the sea as they talked and laughed and sometimes cried. Occasionally they settled into a comfortable silence, lighting a gas lamp to read the newspaper or one of their few books, until they both got too blitzed to see the words on the page. Through the alcohol and the opioid, both generally ended in the same place at the end of the evening, too out of their minds to do anything but collapse into bed for a dreamless sleep until late morning.

Kris, with his new pillow, always fell asleep on the far side of the bed, a full body length away from Sid; yet more than once, they woke up wound together like lovers, neither of them quite remembering how they got there, both spluttering and apologizing and blushing all the same. Sid secretly enjoyed the closeness, longed for more touch, but he couldn’t admit to it.

The days were not usually as good as the nights. As sweet as the morphine was, as enjoyable as the nights were, the days got tougher and tougher. Sometimes there would be a restlessness, like he was just waiting on some unknown thing to happen, a wait which never ended. Other times he could barely go out into the crowds of the markets and streets, anxious that everyone was staring at him, that people could see his past just by looking at him. Still other days brought a deep exhaustion, an ache in his muscles like he’d engaged in a hard physical battle, even though nothing like that happened anymore.

The days weren’t always bad. Kris worked hard to cheer him up, Sid could tell. Sometimes he succeeded and the days were good, with Kris by his side, a familiar and affectionate presence. They sampled brand new food inventions almost daily: marshmallows, potato chips, strawberry ice cream (Sid was especially fond of that last one). A few times, Kris dragged him down to the sea to stick their feet in the water and watch the waves roll in. Once, they'd gotten into a sand fight, giggling and laughing until they were exhausted, and had gotten yelled at the next day, the fishmonger's wash tub looking like the beach.

Sid didn’t quite know what he’d do without Kris, and he was a little terrified to find out. So when Kris mentioned _visiting his family,_ he had to work hard not to blanche at the proclamation. A vision ran through him of Kris meeting a lovely girl from his hometown, young and sweet, and Kris would come back to Sid heartsick and in love before eventually leaving, forever.

“Is your father still anxious to set you up with one of those girls from your village?” Sid asked, sounding a lot calmer than he felt.

“Oh,” Kris laughed, waving his hand as if to dismiss the notion. “Probably? But have you seen the girls from my village? What do they have to offer? No thank you.”

_Sons. A family_. Any of the plain country girls had much more to offer than Sid, although he didn’t voice those thoughts out loud. “Walk me through your plans, then. How long will you be gone?”

“Well, it’s near two days by riverboat each way. Due to the travel time, I’ll be staying about four days with my parents.” Kris pulled a letter from the side table, unscrolled it to read through the missive between him and his family. “My brother, his wife and son will be traveling in as well and our stay will overlap a bit. I’m pretty excited, eh?”

Without being rich - which the Letangs were not - it was damn tough to travel with a newborn. Now that Kris’ nephew was nearing three years of age, it was time to introduce him to the family. Kris seemed so excited to meet him for the first time. Of course he was, that was no surprise; Sid just hoped that the sight of the young boy didn’t evoke wishes and plans for his own family in Kris.

It was an awful thought, hoping that Kris abandoned plans for a _family_ just to stay with him, and Sid felt immediately guilty, even though he’d never voiced it out loud and Kris was no wiser for it. “What’s his name? Your nephew?” he asked, trying to be a little enthusiastic for Kris’ sake.

“Alexander.” Kris grinned, bright and excited. “I wonder if he looks like me at all.”

“Maybe,” Sid said, feeling a little queasy.

“And then when I get back...well.” Kris sighed, set aside the letter. “We’ll need to figure out our next steps. This trip is going to cost a nice chunk of change, and you saw how much my pension is.”

“Not enough,” Sid agreed. Today had been payment day; they’d dragged themselves out of bed early, waiting in the long line of men for their pensions. With Kris by his side, it was a little more bearable than last time. But Kris’ pension had been even smaller than Sid’s, and there was still no backpay. More and more, Sid was convinced he’d never see it.

And that was a problem. There was no way they could survive on their pensions alone, especially if Sid wanted to continue to use morphine. And the idea of _not_ using morphine to ensure sweet, dreamless nights was a terrifying thing.

Kris nodded. “Not enough, you’re right. I’ll ask my brother about his job as a mailman. Maybe he can put in a good word for me for a position around here? And you keep an open mind too, eh? You’d be good at so many things, Sid. Any job would be lucky to have you. You just have to figure out what you want to do.”

Sid nearly laughed at that last sentence. He _knew_ what he wanted to do, but he’d never do that again. Perhaps a merchant ship would be an alright job, but that would mean long weeks away from Kris, and he was the only thing keeping Sid sane for the moment. “We’ll talk about that when you get back,” he said instead.

Only a few short days later, Kris had a bindle packed with clothes and essentials sitting by the door, ready to set sail the next day. The riverboat left early, at the crack of dawn, so Kris was swearing off getting drunk that evening to ensure he didn’t miss it. “Are you going to come see me off?” Kris asked, and he looked so hopeful that Sid couldn’t possibly tell him no.

Which meant that he couldn’t get high than evening, or there was no way he’d be in any sort of state to drag himself out of bed at dawn. A little bit of alcohol took the edge off; not enough to get drunk, but at least not to be an absolute wreck, and he listened as Kris told him stories about his family while he tried not to fidget. Sid had grown up on a Navy ship, no family to speak of, and the tales Kris told about his siblings and parents kept him distracted until it was time to go to sleep, an early night for both of them.

Fear kept him awake long after Kris’ breathing had evened out next to him in a gentle snore. Sid was scared of what dreams might be lurking, what memories or nightmares were ready to lodge themselves in his consciousness without the morphine. Eventually though, he felt himself slipping off the edge, sent a silent plea up towards the heavens before he fell asleep: _not Boone. Please, no nightmares with Boone or Ryan._

Perhaps someone up there was listening, but what Sid got was far worse.

~~~~~

Everything hurt.

Sid stirred with a groan, torn between staying still and moving. He was on the floor, he could tell; arms bound in front of him, legs tied as well. His limbs, his neck, his head, they all _ached,_ and staying still was incredibly uncomfortable. But any time he shifted, his muscles and joints screamed at him to stop. There was no comfort to be had in anything. “Fuck,” he moaned, wrenching his eyes open.

“Well I didn’t wanna knock y’out. Y’didn’t give me a choice,” a voice came, rough and heavily accented in a sort of twang that reminded Sid of the country boys they sometimes got on the Naval ships, dumb and naive. Sid glanced up blearily towards the voice; a large, filthy man was shoveling some kind of bread into his mouth after dipping it into a bowl of broth. Next he spoke, his mouth was full. “Y’shouldn’t try t’escape. You can’t, and I dun like what we gotta do when y’try,” he said around the chewing.

Sid wrenched his eyes back shut, thought back to his previous encounter with this man. He’d woken up in this place - wherever _this place_ was - where he’d been dragged unconscious by Dubinsky, and caught the tail end of the negotiations for his life, the price of his body. Sid had no idea what he’d been sold for, but he didn’t plan to stick around to find out. The second they’d released him from his hogtie, he’d made a run for it; it had been only a woman and this large man guarding him, and he knew he could run faster than both of them. And he did, but the front door of the place was locked, and there was no time to break it down before the man was on him. He remembered terrible pain at his temple and then...nothing.

Quite a contrast from before, now the man seemed to be friendly enough when Sid wasn’t assessed to be a threat to fight or run. “Who are you?” Sid asked, even though he didn’t really care, but any piece of knowledge could be _used_. Sid had learned that very early in his career. If he could just get this man talking, perhaps he would find some nugget of information that could be used to escape.

“Well my real name’s Joseph. But people call me Tiny! I bet y’can’t guess why!” He didn’t wait for Sid to respond, just barreled on. “It’s because I’m actually big! And _not_ tiny! Anyway, I’m here t’make sure the clients don’t kill you. Or if they do, that we collect a lot of money from them for…’ruining the mer-chan-dise’,” he said this last part as if he’d been told the phrase a thousand times and still had trouble memorizing it. “Well, and to keep you in line, but everyone here pretty much behaves. Mistress Cora is awful nice, you’ll see. Gosh, you are pretty. I wonder if she’ll let me fuck you first?”

“What?” Sid yelped, feeling a little shaky as his body immediately dumped a load of adrenaline into his system, nowhere for it to go as he remained tied on the floor. Client. _Merchandise._ Fucking.

He was in a whorehouse, he realized. God help him, he’d been sold to a _brothel,_ to be a whore. No. No, no, no...

“Well I dunno what t’tell ya,” Tiny was saying, and Sid realized he’d been muttering it out loud, _no no no no no._ “Nobody likes it at first, sure, but like I said, Mistress Cora is real nice. She runs a real good place. Better here than that other whorehouse down the street f’r sure. An’ plus she’ll free ya after you get too old if you do good! How many slaves say they got a chance t’be _free,_ huh? Jus’ fifteen, twenny years…”

_“Twenty years?”_

Tiny shrugged. “Coul’ be less or more. Depends when men stop wanting t’fuck you. Prolly closer to twenny for you. Gosh, your mouth is just begging for a dick. You’ll be a popular one, I c’n tell already.”

Sid thought that perhaps he was going to scream and not stop screaming at that very notion, but he reached back into the depths of his Naval training, took a few deep breaths for calm. “How do you keep us in line,” he asked, his voice trembling a little. “What’s to stop me from just...biting a man’s dick off?”

_“Oh,”_ Tiny grunted, eating the last bite of his bread. “Wait here, lemme show y’something.”

Sid tried to keep calm as he was left alone, but adrenaline and panic thrummed too hot, and he ended up writhing and twisting desperately against the bonds, his limbs screaming as he moved. It was useless; the rope was too tight, and all he got was a painful bit of burn around his wrists. “Stoppit,” came a voice after a few minutes - Tiny - and the big man sighed as he re-entered the room, another man trailing behind. “You work tonight, yanno. Just gonna wear y’rself out. Here, lookie. This here’s Otto. Otto, show ‘im your mouth?”

Otto was a slim, younger man, features tilted towards the feminine side. He was almost pretty except for a jagged scar down his mouth and chin and a broken, sad look in his eyes. He opened his mouth and popped out his teeth, which Sid quickly realized were dentures. They were absolutely necessary, because Otto appeared to have no teeth of his own left over.

“You get t’bite once,” Tiny declared. “Never again.”

“Shit,” Sid muttered, staring at Otto’s empty mouth.

Otto popped his dentures back in, twisted them in his mouth until they fit once more. “Don’t do it,” he advised Sid. “I was awake the whole time while they were pulling them. Every single one. And they didn’t give me these dentures right away, either. I had to...earn them.” His mouth curled up in disgust at that last statement.

“Thanks, Otto,” Tiny said, and his voice was cheerful in a way that turned Sid’s stomach, like he was talking about something besides _sex slavery_ and pulling the teeth out of a man who disobeyed. “Y’can go now. As f’r you - Sidney, right? - like I said, tonight’s your first night o’ work. For the first few weeks we chain ya to the bed, till we’re sure we can trust you. Aw, don’t look like that, it ain’t all so bad. You just gotta lay there and take it, huh? Easy-peasy. An’ then if you’re a good boy, we untie you, and you start getting special privileges. Like Otto, after he decided he wanted t’be good. He’s writing a _book_ now, c’n you believe it? And Mistress Cora gives him the paper and quill an’ stuff. See, privileges!”

_Tonight_. It would start tonight, and Sid had a sudden vision of him chained to the bed, a filthy man on top of him, inside of him, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. “Tiny,” he said, willing his voice to not quaver. “You said you wanted a turn at me first. If...if you _don’t_ chain me up tonight, I’ll blow you right now. I promise I’ll be a good boy. I won’t run.”

The bouncer eyed him suspiciously. “Why you wanna make that deal?”

“Well, I - the ropes. They’re starting to hurt, see?” Sid tried showing his wrists, knew they were probably an angry red from his struggles. “I just wanna stretch a little. And...I mean, I’d love the chance to blow the big strong man that’s gonna keep me safe.”

Tiny’s eyes lit up. “That’s me, isn’t it! Well...okay, so m’gonna untie your hands now and if y’run it’ll be real bad for you, Sidney. You be a good boy and I’ll keep you unchained.”

The urge to flee - to fight - to punch, to do _something_ once his hands were untied was nearly irresistible. Instead, he just clenched and unclenched his fists, over and over again, willing his panicked mind to settle down. He had a plan now. Give this one blowjob, and he’d be _free._

True, that freedom would be granted through death. But it was better than this, better than the prospects of being a whore to pirates, ending up like Otto, sad and broken. No, Sid would go out _fighting_. A death worthy of his station.

“Well? Hello? You promised,” Tiny said, sounding annoyed, his pants already down around his ankles, and Sid blanked out his mind and got to work. The large man smelled terrible, and tasted worse, but it was over quickly, bitter liquid in his mouth and a hand in his hair. “Y’better swallow,” he demanded. “The clients can’t come inside yer ass, but they can come anywhere else, so get used to it.”

Sid swallowed.

He at least got what he wanted; Sid was left alone, unchained, in a small room that was to be his own from then on, according to Tiny, the place where he would live and sleep and ‘work’. Meals, assuming he was good, would be taken with the other whores so he could socialize and make friends, and _leisure_ time...Tiny said they could talk about that later, once Sid had proven himself.

Sid intended never to have that conversation about leisure, or anything else on his schedule. He would have no schedule; it was going to end tonight. He assessed the room quickly for weapons: a table, two chairs. Those would do in a pinch. The bed was too heavy to really do much with, although _perhaps_ he could suffocate a man in the bedding. What really drew his eye, though, was a small window with glass. Glass! That was perfect. The second his first ‘client’ came in the room, he’d lure them close, break the glass, slit their throat and then his own.

It was tempting to simply slit his own throat now. After all, there were some risks in his plan; perhaps his visitor would be a competent fighter. But Sid was confident that he could at least force the man to kill him. Besides, he had a mission from God to kill these brigands. Perhaps if he died right after taking out a pirate, God could forgive his suicide and offer mercy. Even better if the pirate killed him, dying nobly in battle, so he wouldn’t have to do the deed himself.

So he waited and watched the sun dip in the sky from his little window.

Finally, the door opened, and a leering man stepped through. Sid didn’t recognize him or his colors, a bright gold with some sort of knight stitched as a logo, but a quick assessment of his build and height confirmed to Sid that he could likely kill this man with little trouble. “Heard you’re new,” the man smirked as the door closed behind him. “I paid a premium to be the first to fuck your ass. It better be worth it.”

“Oh, it will be,” Sid said quietly, making his way over to the window where he’d already set up a chair.

“I think I’ll have your mouth first. Go on, get on the bed.”

“No.”

The pirate stopped, eyes widening in surprise. “No? _No?_ For fuck’s sake, I thought they only kept the compliant ones untied. Don’t make me come over there and get you, you’ll regret it.”

“You’d better do just that,” Sid said, and despite his battered body, despite everything he’d been through over the last few days, he could feel the old familiar battle lust rippling through him, the resolution of knowing someone was going to die. Normally, he prayed it would not be him. Tonight, he prayed it would be both of them.

“Fuck’s sake,” the pirate complained again, and stalked over towards Sid. Sid clenched his hand into a fist, waiting, waiting, _waiting…_

The punch came as a surprise to the pirate, grazing his jaw and sending him sprawling to the floor. Immediately, Sid turned, snagging the chair and smashing it against the glass, where it shattered. One particularly large, jagged bit ended up on the ground, and Sid snatched it up, his palm immediately bleeding where one edge dug into it, and fell upon the pirate on the ground.

The man’s scream cut off suddenly to be replaced by an ugly gurgle when Sid shoved the glass into his throat. As satisfying as it was, Sid could hear footsteps now, realized he didn’t have a lot of time. He tried to pull the glass out, so he could put it in his own throat next, but it was stuck, slippery blood everywhere, all over the glass and Sid’s cut-open hands and he couldn’t get a purchase on it. Dropping the now-dead pirate, he looked desperately for another shard, anything big enough to kill himself - 

_“Hey!”_ was the only warning he got before a heavy weight slammed into him and his world went black.

He was greeted with the same voice as he began to stir. “I wish y’hadn’t,” Tiny said, but he didn’t sound particularly regretful, not like when Sid had first woken up in the brothel. He sounded _pissed._ “I trusted you. Y’ _told_ me, you promised, and now look. Now look what yer gonna get. Get up!”

Sid couldn’t obey that order if he tried, so heavy hands grabbed him, and his world spun as they moved him into position, slamming his neck and wrists against a wooden board. Sid heard a dull thud and a lock click into place, and he tried to slump back down but couldn’t, his head and arms stuck in place. It was a _pillory,_ he realized, something that hadn’t been popular in Pittsburgh for over a hundred years, but Sid had sometimes seen them abandoned throughout the city, the big hole for the head, the two smaller ones for the wrists. He always thought they looked painful.

He was right. He jerked in agony, muscles screaming to just be allowed to lay down and rest as the gravity of the situation slowly came to him: he was not dead. He had _failed,_ and the brothel knew of his try, and guarantee he would not get another chance to kill himself for - who knew how long? Months? _Years?_ And until then…

“Oh, God,” he choked out, tears making his vision blurry. _God._ God surely had abandoned him, for why else would he have failed in his most critical hour? For what reason could God have to see him become a whore, a plaything for the worst men on earth?

“Half price _tonight,”_ came Tiny’s cry from behind him, and Sid realized he was outside, in what appeared to be the city center, people - mostly men, all pirates - milling about and watching curiously. “Y’want a cheap whore? Fresh and new! He ain’t been fucked yet! Who’ll be the first? Come help us break him in!”

“Please, no,” he moaned, his world starting to spin dizzily, and he heard voices behind him, negotiating, barking about price, and then hands on his naked body, pressing against him, _inside_ him, and - 

Sid screamed.

~~~~~

The scream bubbled up his throat, and Sid snapped his eyes open, clapped his hand over his mouth to stop it. His eyes immediately went to Kris, sleeping peacefully next to him. Sometime in the middle of the night he’d moved closer, and his hand splayed out, fingers brushing Sid’s hip.

_Don’t wake Kris, don’t wake Kris,_ he chanted to himself, quietly sucking gulps of air between his fingers, trying to calm himself down. A bead of sweat rolled down from his forehead, tracked wet down his cheek. Well, he’d prayed not to dream about Boone or Ryan, and he hadn’t, but at what price?

_Fuck you, God_ , he thought in a sudden pique of anger. What terrible thing had he done to deserve these memories, walked through in vivid detail in his dreams? Sid could practically taste the cloth they’d shoved in his mouth to stop him from screaming. It hadn’t stopped his cries, only muffled them as he’d realized how much trouble he was in, how hopeless his situation seemed. By the time morning had come, he’d lost count of the men that had used him, had five - perhaps six - cigars put out on his skin ( _you gotta pay extra for that,_ Tiny had demanded, and presumably the men had paid up) and had pissed himself, the warm liquid running down his thigh and pooling at his heels.

And then he’d been left there all day to parch in the sun. To break him.

_Fuck you God,_ he thought again, but that fury was dissolving into regret and fear at angering his maker. _Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Sorry, I’m sorry, just - why? Why me? What have I done to deserve...any of this?_

As always, the skies were silent, so he turned his attention towards Kris. He took the opportunity to study his features: his strong jaw, high cheekbones, dark brown hair splayed on the pillow. He looked peaceful. Beautiful.

He would have been popular in the brothel.

The thought came to him unbidden, and he choked, disgusted with the idea and disgusted with himself for thinking it. What was _wrong_ with him?

If these monstrous thoughts and memories came to him while he was sober...well, he simply couldn’t be _sober_ anymore. A steady supply of money was going to be crucial, which meant some sort of terrible, mind-numbing job. _Decide what you want to do,_ Kris had said. Anything, Sid thought; anything that paid well. He’d have to start looking around while Kris was out of town.

Kris sighed and muttered in his sleep, oblivious to Sid’s trials, and rolled onto his side. He was close enough now for not only his fingers to touch; his whole arm rested on Sid’s belly with his new adjustment. They were practically cuddling. Perhaps this is why they sometimes ended up curled together, shifting slowly towards each other in the night like magnets.

Sid knew he should move away, allow Kris to wake up in the morning with dignity. Nobody should have to touch him, especially not someone like Kris. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sid’s sleep shirt had twisted and ridden up in his nightmares, and Kris’ wrist was warm against his bare stomach, his fingers stretched out intimately. He felt like he could cry at the touch, the touch of a man who didn’t want to use him or own him or _hurt_ him like so many had before, all except two men who were now dead.

But Kris was here. Alive.

As convinced as he was that sleep would not come for him any longer, he was shocked to find himself drowsy, the adrenaline crash pulling him back under. Sid took a chance, laid a few fingers against Kris’ wrist, and fell asleep to his heartbeat, strong and steady in his grasp.


	43. Chapter 43

The rapping on the window was loud, and despite his exhaustion, it woke Sid immediately, panic flaring for a brief second as he was unsure where he was. _Safe,_ he quickly realized, nowhere near a brothel; they were in their small flat, Kris was squished next to him, and the sky was just switching from inky black to a dusty grey as the sun got closer to rising.

“Shit. Sorry,” Kris mumbled, sounding sleepy, and rolled off the bed to stagger to the window and wave at the knocker-up, whose job it was to rouse people out of bed. He yawned and stretched, a little edge of stomach showing as his shirt pulled up. “Mmm, how’d you like to have that job, eh?”

“No thanks.” Sid didn’t know what he wanted to do, but the idea of going around and being a personal alarm clock sounded like a slice of hell to him, even if he was grateful that _somebody_ did it. “So if they wake us up...who wakes them up?”

“Maybe the knocker-ups have their own knocker-ups.” Kris chuckled, rubbing his eyes, sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

“But then who wakes - “

“Shhh,” he teased, putting his finger for a moment at Sid’s lips to quiet him before his eyes went wide and he yanked his hand back, looking panicked and wide awake now. “Oh hell, I didn’t mean - “

“It’s okay.” Sid snagged Kris’ wrist before he could fully withdraw it. He wasn’t sure what made him do it - perhaps the soft sleepiness of the early morning wake up, or the need for comfort and warmth after the terrible nightmare, or the fact that Kris had touched him first - but he found himself with a firm grip on Kris’ wrist, pressing his fingers back to the fluttering pulse there.

They stayed like that for a long moment until Kris shifted his wrist, his hand settling into Sid’s palm, and both slowly curled their fingers until they were holding hands. Sid felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, like he was sipping breaths through a straw, scarcely daring to breathe any deeper for fear it would all come crashing down as Kris came to his senses. What did this mean? Did it mean _anything?_

“Sid,” Kris murmured, barely above a whisper. “I - I…” His mouth hung open for a long moment, like he was debating on what to say, before he flinched and looked away. “...I should get dressed.”

“Oh, uh. Of course. Right. Me too. I’ll come see you off, after all.” Sid allowed Kris’ fingers to slip through his, heart in his throat, still wondering what in the world just happened. He laid there for a long minute, blinking at the ceiling dumbly, before forcing himself to get up and off the bed.

Sid dressed quickly, in plain civilian duds, tried not to watch too closely as Kris prepared his clothes. He was wearing his Naval finery, dressed up to travel; his uniform was the nicest thing he had, since neither of them had gotten suits tailored yet. It felt like the silence stretched on, an uncomfortable thing, Sid’s mind still preoccupied over the moment of holding hands - was that what it was? - just a moment ago. “You, ah...you really wanted to come home, huh? When you were out there on the _Penguin?”_ he said, to fill the void.

“Sorry?” Kris frowned, buttoning up the front of his uniform. “What do you mean?”

“Your arm. The tattoos.” Kris’ arm was concealed now, inside the uniform sleeve, but it was brilliant red and blue from wrist to shoulder, covered with countless swallows in all manner of flight. They hadn’t been there when Sid saw him last, but he knew what they meant. It was a wish for a safe return home, and if drowned, that his soul would be escorted by those birds in a passageway to heaven.

“Oh, uh.” Kris ran a hand up his arm, mouth drawn thin, staying quiet until he finished with his buttons. Then, sounding almost reluctant, he said, “The swallows weren’t for me, Sid.”

It was Sid’s turn to be confused. “I don’t understand.”

“The swallows. Yes, they were a fervent desire for a homecoming. For a safe passage back. But not _my_ safe passage.” Kris walked slowly over in front of Sid, where he knelt down on one knee, staring at the floor. He looked skittish, like he was expecting something terrible. “Sid...they were for you. All I wanted was for you to be safe and happy. Even if you never came home - although I prayed you would, every day, prayed I’d get to see you again. And if not, at least for your soul to be at peace.”

“Kris,” he whispered, in shock, not sure what to say. “Surely not...you got those all for _me?”_

“For you. I guess maybe it worked, eh?” Kris let out a nervous laugh, reaching up and grabbing Sid’s hand like before. “You know, they also mate for life. They can go great distances from each other, be pulled apart, and they’ll find each other again. So the swallow is a symbol of everlasting devotion and loyalty, too, and - and - oh, God - if this is too forward, Sid, if you never want to see me again, I understand, I’ll get on that boat this morning and - “

“And you’ll visit your family, and then you’ll come back to me in a week’s time, just like you planned. Won’t you? You have to come back, Kris. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I need you.” Sid gently cupped Kris’ cheek with his free hand, trying to keep his grip steady and not shake like a leaf with the pure elation that had bloomed in his chest. There was still a small nagging terror - perhaps he’d heard wrong, perhaps Kris meant something altogether different and he was misreading the situation - but Kris’ brilliant grin as Sid touched him dispelled those notions. “Please come back to me.”

Kris put his hand over Sid’s, leaned into the touch as if he were starved for it. “Always. How could I do anything but, when God gave me a miracle that you came back to _me?”_

“Good,” Sid said, and suddenly both of them were laughing in joy; then Kris surged forward from where he was kneeling, and his mouth was on Sid’s, and Sid was being _kissed._

It was a sweet and gentle thing, no tongue, just soft lips against his own. Sid was too stunned to do anything but close his eyes and kiss back. He felt overwhelmed with the idea that Kris was willing to kiss him and touch him, perhaps even willing to _love_ him, to ignore Sid’s checkered past of slavery and brothels and deem him worthy of these kinds of affections.

Kris pulled back just a little, their mouths sticking together as they parted, seeming to sense Sid’s shock. “Is this okay?” he murmured, close enough that Sid could feel his breath.

“Yes,” Sid said, and he could hear his voice shaking; Kris’ eyes went wide at the quaver. “Yes, yes, it’s just. It’s a lot.”

Kris closed his eyes, guilt washing over his features. “Of course it is. I’m an idiot.”

“No. But you’re going to be late for your boat, is what you are,” Sid said, no matter how much he wanted Kris to kiss him again, kiss him and never stop. “But...but we can talk about this when you get back?”

“Yes.”

“You, uh...you definitely _are_ coming back?”

“Sid.” Kris stood up, eyes flashing fiercely. “Nothing could keep me from you. I promise that.” He held out a hand for Sid to help pull him off the bed to stand next to him. “Come on, let’s go. Or you’re right, I will be late.”

They had to hurry to the boat slip, made worse because Kris kept glancing over and breaking into a goofy grin at Sid, and he nearly plowed straight into a streetlamp twice as he wasn’t looking. They made it just as final boarding was being called, and Kris glanced at the boat, then back at Sid, as if he wanted to say or do something but was hesitant.

“Go.” Sid gave him a gentle nudge, knowing they could not kiss or hold hands here, not in public. “Go, and I’ll be awaiting your return eagerly.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, pausing for a moment to just look at Sid, as if committing the picture to memory, before turning and hurrying away, the last one on the boat. Sid waited with the other families, mostly wives and children of various passengers, bidding goodbye to their loved ones as the boat set off down the river. He could see Kris on one of the mid-decks, hanging over the railing and waving boisterously, and Sid returned his wave until the boat got far enough that he couldn’t make out any facial features.

Their apartment seemed very quiet without Kris, but Sid was able to fall back asleep easily, a pleased grin on his face as he held Kris’ pillow in his arms.

~~~~~

It was mid-day when Sid woke next, rousing out of bed to pick up a midday meal, a hot savory pie from a street vendor. Once finished, he decided it was a good day for a celebratory treat and ended up sitting on the dock outside his apartment, licking at a rapidly-melting strawberry ice cream while he watched the ships set out to port.

Even with Kris gone, today was a better day than Sid had had in months. Kris’ words about love and devotion played through his mind, and he could barely believe it was real, that he could be so fortunate. Had Kris loved him when they were on the _Penguin_ together? How had Sid missed it?

He sat and thought about their years together on the ship while licking the sweet strawberry cream from where it had melted down his hand. What he’d thought was a deep friendship on the _Penguin_ could certainly have been an unrequited love based on Kris’ behavior. Kris spent every evening with Sid drinking tea, and was also fiercely protective of him in battle, plus he had a tendency to linger in the occasional hug they’d shared. And then there was the injury; a few years into the journey a cannon blast knocked Sid back, shaking his brain. The first thing he saw when he awoke was Kris, looking stricken, more panicked than Sid had ever seen him. It had taken months for him to be able to tolerate sunlight again, and Kris had been a steady presence by his side all those times, helping run the ship, shielding him from the mutiny whispers he knew had surely occurred while he healed.

Perhaps he’d been so blind because he never would have allowed himself to look at a subordinate in any kind of sexual way. He had been Kris’ superior officer. He had a duty to him, to maintain propriety, and sodomy was officially banned in the Navy anyway. Sid would have gotten a court-martial at best, a hanging at worst, for what he did this morning with Kris, the sweet kiss they shared.

The kiss. Sid touched his lips, cold from the ice cream, and wanted more of those kisses, more of Kris. For the first time in months, he felt a stir of desire, like an old friend he thought abandoned him to never return. He finished his ice cream quickly and headed back up to their flat, throwing himself on the bed.

Sid let his mind wander a little more. What would they do when Kris got back? More kisses, certainly. The kiss this morning was incredible, but chaste; Sid imagined Kris wrapping him up in his arms, urging his mouth open to kiss him deeper. Maybe Kris would pull him over to this bed, lay him down, hold him close while they kissed. Kris’ arms would be tight around his torso, his weight a comforting presence on top of Sid, safe and loved.

With a sigh, Sid fumbled at the buttons on his pants. He didn’t have any sort of oil, no lube to slick the way; something he would have to change. Would the shopkeeper figure it out, watching two men purchase olive oil together, what they wanted it for? Sid couldn’t bring himself to care. He nudged his pants down as he thought about exactly what that oil would be used for.

Slow, Kris would go so slow with everything even before he brought out the oil. They’d kiss until Sid was desperate for it, shaky with desire, his entire world nothing but Kris and his mouth and his hands. And when he did need the oil, slick fingers pressing between Sid’s thighs, it would be unhurried, no discomfort, no pain.

He could almost hear Kris’ voice murmuring in his ear, “Relax. I just want to make you feel good,” he’d say, and Sid believed it, that Kris would be concerned over his pleasure, that he would not do anything without _knowing_ it would be welcome.

“Kris,” he murmured out loud to the empty room, throwing his head back to the ceiling while he stroked himself, letting his legs fall open. “Ohh, Kris. Please.”

In his fantasy, he was ready, begging for it, wanting anything Kris would give him. Again, he’d go slow, checking to make sure Sid was okay as he pushed inside, cradling Sid in his arms while they rocked together. He’d whisper between kisses how special Sid was, how good he felt, how much he was loved. They’d kiss until Sid’s mouth was buzzing with it, until he ran out of saliva.

Toes curling, Sid whimpered, getting close. It had been so long since anyone had touched him, including himself. “Come inside me,” he’d tell Kris, because that was _sacred,_ and there wasn’t much special he could give to Kris that hadn’t already been taken from him over and over again, but that was one of them. Kris would get close, his slow lovemaking speeding up just a little, snapping his hips into that sweet spot inside - 

Sid came with a whine and wondered what noises Kris would make when he came as well.

Half-dozing, he laid on the bed for close to an hour, the deep pleasant exhaustion of his first orgasm in god-knows-how-long settled into his bones. It was a nice fantasy, and he _did_ want Kris, but reality started to sour things a bit as the headiness of arousal ebbed away.

Would Kris be able to tell how many men had Sid before him? He didn’t quite know how, but maybe...maybe there was _something,_ something he had become blind to, that screamed _whore._ What if he gave Kris an amazing blowjob - something he wanted to do, desperately wanted to make Kris feel good - would he remember how Sid got so talented with his mouth? When he fucked Sid, would he remember how many men had him first? Even if he let Kris come inside him, he wasn’t the first, he couldn’t give Kris _anything_ that others hadn’t had before.

Not that he regretted for an instant letting Boone do that, didn’t regret a damn thing they did. He treasured every memory of it, them stuck together, the look on Boone’s face when he came, deep inside Sid. How he felt when Boone clutched him close and growled _mine._

_Yours forever,_ Sid would say, although it had not even been a year - perhaps nine months now since Boone had died - and yet here he was, daydreaming about giving the most _intimate_ parts of himself to someone else. Thinking about loving someone else, so soon.

“Shit,” Sid muttered, hiding his face in his hands. He didn’t know how to feel now. Guilt at the thought of Boone, fear at Kris realizing he was used-up, but still the steady thrum of impatient desire at Kris’ return. He was a mess, and the idea of staying here alone with nothing but a book to keep him company was terrifying, even if he did have morphine to ease him through the night. No, tonight he wanted to be around others, needed some kind of distraction to take his mind off these conflicting feelings.

The opium den - of course. The thought of seeing Mary there again made him uneasy with what they’d done last time they had met, but it had been a one-time thing, to be discarded and forgotten about now that it was over. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t even be there tonight.

Sid fell back into a fitful doze. He planned to sleep, cook a big dinner from their food storage, maybe splurge on another sweet - there was a vendor in from Boston selling ‘chocolate cream pies’ - and then head to the opium den and forget his worries. Kris would be back in a week. He could deal with a week alone.

~~~~~

Mary wasn’t at the opium den that night. It was somewhat of a relief; he didn’t want the reminder of what he’d done. He spent the night idly reading the newspaper, just enjoying the presence of other people, the occasional jokes and laughter as he looked through the _help wanted_ section. Day laborer jobs were plentiful, on nearby farms or factories, but the work was brutal and the hours were long. He could look to apprentice himself to a tradesman - a blacksmith, a printer, a watchmaker - but he’d be paid scraps during an apprenticeship, and they needed money now. Seafaring jobs paid decently, either on a merchant or fishing ship, and Sid knew he’d qualify for those roles, but the idea of spending weeks, perhaps _months_ without Kris...it turned his stomach. He set aside the paper with a sigh and sunk himself into the peace of the opium.

Sid came back the next night, and Mary arrived at the den sometime in the middle of his first pipe.

“Sidney!” Her voice was syrup-sweet as she flounced over to him, daintily taking up the cushion to his left. “It’s been so long. I was afraid something had happened to you. Are you alright?”

Sid cleared his throat from the pipe smoke, glancing around. The den was mostly empty tonight, and the few people there were clustered in other corners, laughing and chatting or passed out on the cushions. “I’m well, thank you.”

“Or perhaps…” Mary lowered her voice, looking concerned. “Perhaps you regret what we did? Mercy, I hope not. We so enjoyed your company.”

_Your company._ Sid felt his lip curl involuntarily at the euphemism, tamped it back down. “No, ma’am. No regrets,” he said, politely.

She lit up at the declaration. “Then we simply must do it again, right?”

Sid felt his jaw hang open at the invite. “Oh. I, uh...um…”

Mary continued, as if he weren’t uncomfortably stuttering next to her. “We’ve been _so_ looking forward to it again, and after us, I have a dear friend who would love a man of your talents. She’s a widow, you see, her husband dead at sea, and it’s been so long since she’s felt wanted. If you could just be sweet to her, maybe give her some kisses, maybe...maybe use that mouth _elsewhere_ , why, she would be thrilled. She deserves it so, and I know she’d pay just as well.”

The rejection was on his lips, but after a long moment he snapped his jaw shut and thought about it. There was no job available that wouldn’t be terrible in its own way. He could choose abuse and years of little pay as an apprentice; he could break his back sixty hours a week at the mill or the factory; he could sail on a merchant ship and spend months away from Kris.

Or he could have sex for two measly hours for what he’d earn at the factory in a _month_. He could take care of Kris, be the provider for once. He was so sick of being the helpless one, the damsel in distress of a sorts, the one that needed saved and taken care of and coddled. As much as he loved Boone, he’d been wholly reliant on the man, and it showed now as he tried to pick up the pieces after his death. He never wanted to be in that position again.

Maybe now he wouldn’t have to be. He and Kris could continue their joyous life of leisure together, and he could even buy Kris a present, one of those expensive things he’d fawned over at the general store. He could practically see Kris’ grin at being gifted a fine piece of art, could practically taste the kiss he’d earn from it.

“Nobody will find out?” he asked, voice low. “Discretion, you said?”

She tapped the side of her nose twice, nodding. “We keep our secrets, Sidney. For us, how does tomorrow look, are you available?” She laid an intimate hand on his hip, right on the furrow of the V leading to his groin, and he had to clench his fists so as not to shudder.

Tomorrow was perfect. Kris wouldn’t be back yet - not that this was _cheating_ , they were certainly not courting, or engaged, or exclusive - but still, he could not fathom telling Kris how he’d be earning their keep. So he nodded, pasted a smile on his face. “Tomorrow. As for tonight, I would love another hit…?”

It was a not-entirely subtle way to demand she buy him his next pipe, but Mary took it in good grace with a little laugh. “Of course, Sidney. Whatever you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on vacation for the next few weeks, so the next update will be a bit delayed, but it's coming!


	44. Chapter 44

And so, the next night, Sid found himself on the Stevens' couch again. This time, Mary was on her knees, and Sid was yanking her hair at her insistence, head pulled back to the ceiling, where she was moaning. He came inside her again; as he was pulling his clothes back on, he watched Kevin walk over to his wife, swipe a finger between her thighs, and suck it clean.

Well, whatever got them off, he supposed. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel repulsed, not with what they’d paid him, the money sitting heavy against his thigh. Instead, he thought about Kris, what he’d be able to do with the cash, the delighted expression on his face at what things and experiences Sid would be able to buy for him.

He'd also been given as a referral to another woman, one of Mary's friends. She was a widow, and a few nights later Sid was at her place, head buried between her legs. She was lonely since her husband died, and wanted attention. For a price, Sid was happy to make her feel wanted again. Mary met him at the opium parlor a few days later, the evening before Kris was set to return home, and positively gushed about her friend's experience.

"We have a lot of friends who can use a man of your talents," she whispered. "We're throwing a party in two weeks, and have a number of visiting Naval officers and their spouses coming in. Not from Pittsburgh," she hurried, at Sid's frown. "They're from Detroit, so you don't have to worry about anyone knowing you. Maybe you could come be part of the entertainment?"

Sid sat up, putting the pipe aside, glancing around to ensure nobody was listening. "How much, and what would I have to do?" 

"Oh, just what you've been doing with me and my friend," she told him. "You might have more than one interested suitor, though, but don't worry. Kevin has this miracle helper from Africa. They call it the 'love tree' over there. You can go all night with it, simply amazing I tell you! And maybe - ..." She hesitated, but smiled impishly. "Would you be willing to go with a man?"

Sid felt his hackles raise, and when she named her price - which was significantly over what he'd been paid for just the Stevens' - he shook his head. "That price, with women, okay. But if men want to..." he trailed off, even the thought getting him a little shaky. He’d had enough of strange men on top of him to last a lifetime. It was a _lot_ of money, but simply not worth it.

“What if I double it?”

“I...I don’t…”

_“Triple.”_ She sighed playfully, as if this was all a negotiation tactic on Sid’s part. “My, Sidney, you do drive a hard bargain. You’re worth it, though.”

Sid stared at her in open-mouth shock at the latest offer. It was nearly half a year’s worth of wages as a naval captain. Why, he could take this one job, and then he and Kris could enjoy each other’s company for _months_ with no need for other employment. They could go to the circus. The zoo. Or simply stay home and learn everything about each other, twisted lazy and naked in each other’s arms all day.

"Okay," he blurted out. “I’ll do it. Just. Just give me the details.”

"Perfect! We do need the entertainment to be simply _amazing_ , so come eager and excited like you have been with me,” she cooed, rubbing a hand through his beard and producing a slip of paper. “We're co-hosting the party with one of the brigadier generals from the Pittsburgh Army, so you'll go to this address, on this date, at this time. Be prompt. Wear a suit to arrive, even though you won’t be in it long.” She giggled at this last statement, like she was scandalized to have even said it.

A suit; he’d finally need to visit a tailor to get it. Kris would need one as well, for what Sid wanted to do. He pictured them at the theater, in the fine boxes reserved for upper class patrons, secretly holding hands in the dim light as the actors on stage entertained them. A few days later they’d be at the horse track, betting on a beautiful chestnut mare, and their horse would win and Kris would laugh and cling to him, delighted. “You take such good care of us,” he’d say, and then they would stumble home, barely back inside their room before Kris pulled him close in a hungry kiss.

Sid allowed himself a few more daydreams as he settled back in with a pipe. Their shabby flat transformed before his eyes into a respectable little house, an actual dining room table to eat at. Dinners by candlelight - no, by _gas lamp_. A big bed by a hearth, warm from the fire and Kris’ body heat. For all this, Sid could grit his teeth, force a smile, shut his brain off while he was bent over by another strange man. _Sacrifice_. Something he’d become intimately familiar with in the Navy, and something he could continue to do.

Kris was worth it.

~~~~~

It was a relief and a thrill to see Kris striding up the dock, wide smile and bright eyes crinkling in pleasure at the sight of Sid waiting for him. There had been a small, nagging part of Sid’s brain that was convinced he’d turn up here at the boat slip, and wait...and wait...and wait for Kris, who would never show up, having reconsidered the whole thing while he was with family. “Sid!” he called out as he got close, joyous.

“Hi, Kris,” Sid answered, a little more shy. Kris dropped his bindle and swept him into a friendly hug. In the crowd of reuniting families, it was not unusual to see two men hugging, but Sid had to resist the urge to pull him into a kiss. _That_ would not be a typical sight, for sure.

“I missed you,” Kris murmured into his ear before reluctantly letting him go, big grin back on his face as he regarded Sid fondly.

The walk back to their flat was considerably slower than the first trip had been, not needing to rush to catch the boat. “How was home?” Sid asked, and Kris just barked a laugh.

“It’s not really ‘home’ anymore, Sid. Not like here, with you.”

Sid’s breath caught in his throat at the proclamation, and he glanced over with a slow smile. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh. But to answer your question, everyone is well, although Papa’s hip is bothering him more and more. I keep telling him he needs to hire additional help for the heavy lifting, but he never listens to me. You should see my nephew, though. He’s so healthy! Sort of looks like me, too!”

Kris’ pride at the little boy came through in his words, and Sid tried to stuff down the twinge of fear. “You like children, then? You, uh...want them of your own?”

“I want - Sid, I want…” Kris frowned, glancing around, lowering his voice. “Unless you’ve had a change of heart when I was gone, it’s _you_ that I want. And unless you’re hiding something crazy from me, or God gives us a miracle of all miracles, children are not in the cards. Why, do you want sons?”

Sid let out a long breath that he didn’t know he was holding in. “Sometimes it feels like I can barely take care of myself, much less another human being,” he said. “I just. Need to be sure you know what you’re getting into, Kris.”

“Oh, you think perhaps I’ll wake up in a year, confused as to why no baby is coming after we’ve been trying for so long?” Kris wasn’t even trying to hide his smirk, and he clasped his hands in front of him, raising his eyes skyward. “Please God, why is my _husband_ so barren?”

It was a joke, but the word _husband_ stopped him cold in his tracks. That was quite a serious word, indicating something long-term. That’s what Sid wanted though, wasn’t it? Or was it an off the cuff remark, something flippant, as he remembered Kris to often be?

He realized Kris was staring at him, and he forced himself to laugh and start walking again. “Okay, your...your point is made. Uh. Anyway, why would _I_ be the one carrying this miracle child, then?”

Kris still looked puzzled at Sid’s reaction, but he played along with the banter. “And ruin this body?” he scoffed, brushing his hands along his stomach. “No way, God knows better than to pick me.”

“Keep it up, Kristopher.” Sid shuffled in his pockets for the key as they turned down their street. “See if I give you that present that’s waiting at home. Perhaps I’ll just keep it for myself.”

“Present? You got me a _gift?_ But - our money situation - “

Sid unlocked their front door, rehearsing again the story he’d come up with. “I, uh. The Navy. Remember that backpay they kept promising? They finally delivered. _And_ there’s more coming, maybe even a lot more.”

“Holy shit.” Kris looked pleasantly stunned. “Those rat bastards actually delivered on their promise to take care of you?”

They hadn’t, of course; every time Sid stood in line for his pension, the answer had always been the same. _Not processed yet. Next time._ He’d need to be careful that Kris didn’t make further inquiries, but this was the best story he could think of for why he suddenly came into large amounts of money. “I know, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Forget babies, _that_ is your miracle right there.” Kris shut the door firmly behind him; Sid heard a _thunk_ as he dropped his baggage on the floor, and then there were arms around his waist from behind. Kris’ breath was hot against his hairline, and Sid felt gooseflesh raise as Kris pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck. “Is this okay?” Kris asked softly, mouth moving against Sid’s skin.

Sid knew they really needed to talk; despite Kris’ joking on children, there were other issues to address. Did Kris truly want long-term, as his usage of the word _husband_ suggested? And if so, did he truly realize what sort of baggage Sid dragged along to any relationship? He had to know, but...Kris’ arms felt so safe that he couldn’t help but melt back into them, not wanting anything to ruin the moment. “Yes. More than okay.”

Kris huffed a laugh against his neck, arms tightening around Sid’s waist. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this. How many times I’ve dreamed about this. You, in my arms. It almost doesn’t seem real.” He dropped a few more kisses along Sid’s exposed neck as he spoke.

“Kris, I - “ Sid swallowed thickly, feeling shivery at the attention. “I need to know your intentions. What you want from me.”

“Want? Sid, I want anything you’ll offer.” Kris’ hand splayed out on his stomach. “And in return, I’ll give you everything of me. You already had my devotion, my heart, you just never seemed to realize it. Every night on the _Penguin_ , I looked for a sign that you might return my affections, that it could be anything more than just a deep friendship. I never saw anything, and yet...yet here you are, in my arms. I want us. Forever. What do you want?”

“The same, but…”

“But?” Kris loosened his hold, only to gently turn Sid in his arms so they were face-to-face. His expression betrayed his nerves at the turn the conversation was taking, even as his voice remained steadily even. “But...but _what?”_

“You have to understand that less than a year ago, I was together with someone I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. _Forever,_ that’s what he said, too. But now he’s dead, and…” Sid turned his gaze downward, not wanting to see Kris’ sad eyes anymore. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. As a captain, deaths happened, and I mourned, and then I got over it. But right now it just seems like I’m stuck. The other day I ate a pastry and I thought to myself, oh Boone has to try this, he’d love it. And then I remembered that he’s gone. It’s like my brain refuses to accept his death, and then mourns fresh when it remembers. And that’s not fair to you, Kris.”

“As I said, I’ll wait. Don’t worry about _fair._ We’ll go slow,” Kris promised. “I won’t do anything until you’re ready. I waited for over ten years, Sid. A little more time won’t kill me. I won’t push you, but...can I at least kiss you?”

Kris cupped his cheek, pulled his face back up to his, and Sid felt his stomach crunch a little at the tender motion. “Okay,” he said.

The first kiss was just as slow and soft as they first they shared; Kris lingered in it, holding him close. For the second, Sid let his jaw drop open a little bit. The first touch of Kris’ tongue against his was a little electric shock of desire, and he clutched Kris tight, letting him deepen the kiss further.

“We can keep standing here,” Kris finally broke apart and said, voice husky, “or we can maybe sit on the bed. Or lay down. I promise, I don’t do anything until you’re ready and wanting. We’ll just kiss unless you want more.”

It was an odd mixture of desire and trepidation, and Sid blinked, trying to sort out his feelings. “Did you. Uh. Before we...did you want your gift?”

Kris chuckled, cupping his cheek again. “You’re my gift, Sid,” he said with another quick kiss. “But okay.”

Reluctantly, he stepped back from Kris, pulled open one of the drawers in the shabby dresser. Maybe, Sid thought as he grimaced at the loud _squeak_ the drawer made as it slid along its hinge, this would be the next to be replaced with his money.

The pocketwatch sat inside, gleaming bright and new. It was made of coin silver - Sid couldn’t afford sterling, or gold - but it still made a handsome piece. What really drew him to it was the decoration on the lid: twin swallows plated in brass, twined around each other. Sid had fretted about it for a day, wondering if it was too forward or bold, but now that the time to give the gift had arrived, he felt confident in his choice.

“Sid,” Kris murmured at the first sight of the watch, holding out his hand for Sid to drop it into his palm. “Oh, Sid, you shouldn’t have. Look at this. _Swallows.”_ He traced over the lines of the birds, his smile going goofy and wide. “Just like my arm.”

“Just like your arm,” Sid agreed, watching Kris’ reaction with a pleased grin.

“You remember what I told you when you asked about them? These swallows, they’re a symbol. Love and devotion for eternity. Sid, I...I love you. You know that, right? I’ve loved you for years.” Kris curled his fingers around the pocketwatch, watching Sid with wide eyes.

_I love you too_ , Sid wanted to say, because he’d already admitted he wanted a _forever_ with Kris, and why would he want that if he wasn’t in love? Yet… “I’m not ready to tell another man that,” he said slowly, wincing as Kris’ expression crumbled for a second before drawing back to neutral. “I’m not ready to say those words out loud to someone else. Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“I told you we’d go slow, and I meant it. And I’ll treasure this gift. Maybe with it I’ll be a bit more of a gentleman now, eh?”

“Speaking of _gentleman_...I figured we could get fitted for an actual suit, too.”

Kris’ eyes lit up at that. “I could take you on a proper date. The circus is in town next week! Or we could go to a real dinner. China, linen, six course meal.”

“Oh, is this a _courtship_ now?” Sid teased, although the idea of a _date_ made his stomach flip. He’d never been on one before; not in the Navy, where he had no time - nor real desire - to engage in a courtship for a lady. Certainly not with Boone, stuck in the brothel or on the _Blue Jacket._ And even though nobody would recognize it as a date except themselves, the thought of them being out together for no reason but to enjoy each other’s company was immensely satisfying.

“A courtship, eh? Only if you don’t mind me breaking every etiquette rule. Like this one,” Kris said, stepping up and kissing him again.

They ended up making out on the bed, the cold silver of the pocket watch pressed against Sid’s elbow until Kris managed to untangle just long enough to set it aside before coming right back to Sid’s mouth. Kris was hard, Sid could feel him pressed heavy against his thigh, but true to his word he made no movement towards anything further than kissing. His hands gently roamed along Sid’s sides, his chest, skimmed along this thighs, but the purpose was simply to touch, not to remove clothes. “You’re beautiful, Sid,” he murmured as they finally broke apart, Sid’s chest heaving as he sucked in the breaths that were lost to Kris’ mouth.

“Beautiful? Do you know what I look like under here?” Sid asked, plucking at his shirt. He’d been careful to use shirts around Kris; even when he was washing up, he would drag the damp rag under his shirt instead of taking it off. He could count on one hand the number of times Kris had seen him shirtless.

Kris cocked his head, smiling through his confusion. “You’ve been shirtless before around me. Not often, but a few times.”

“It doesn’t disgust you?”

“Disgust…?” Kris’ face twisted in sudden recognition. “Sid, no. I meant what I said. You’re _beautiful.”_

Gently pushing Kris away, Sid pulled off his shirt and opened his arms wide, heart hammering in his chest as he offered himself for viewing. He tapped just above his ribs, at a circular protrusion of skin. “This right here is a cigar burn. They let you do it in the brothel, for a few extra coins. If one of the patrons knew I used to be in the Navy...they’d delight in burning me, before they fucked me. I used to get myself ready, Kris, because they were always too rough, never enough oil.” Sid moved his hand up to his face, slid his finger along a scar on his jawline. “This one’s hard to see with the beard. You can feel it, though. One of the pirates on the _Blue Jacket_ punched me. Still had a ring on, and it skipped across my jaw. Then he forced himself down my throat hard enough that I was hoarse for three days. And then of course, the brand.” He brushed the offending pattern with his fingers. “Ovechkin’s mark of _ownership_. And don’t even get me started on my back.”

“Are you trying to drive me away, is that it?” Kris gently pressed his palm against the brand; it was warm, a soothing touch, although Sid couldn’t help the startled jerk at the contact with the hated thing. “It’s not going to work. I know about your past. It’s not something that gives me any pause.”

“I just want you to fully realize what you’re getting yourself into before we get started. So there’s no surprises. No - “ Sid nearly said _secrets,_ felt a flush of shame, but barreled on, “...no problems down the road. I guess I just don’t understand...I’m a man whose heart belongs to a dead pirate, and whose body has belonged to countless scoundrels and brigands. I can’t see what I have to offer you. That man you fell in love with on the _Penguin_ is gone, Kris.”

“The man you had tea with every evening on the _Penguin_ is gone too. We’re both different now, not the men we used to be. But some things haven’t changed; I’m still just as mad over you. All these weeks we’ve spent together so far has confirmed it. That brilliant spark inside, the thing I fell in love with, it’s still _there_ , even if you can’t see it right now. Do you think I care what this shell of yours looks like? I’m not in love with your body, Sid. It’s _here_ I want.” Kris pushed on Sid’s chest, right above the heart. “And you know, if that never happens, at least I’ll have your company. Your kisses and your cuddles. I’ll be content with that.”

Sid shook his head, still in disbelief. “It’s not something I can comprehend, but okay.”

“You know, I got tattoos for my lost love. Well, I _thought_ he was lost, at least, but here you are.” Kris swept his hand up his arm. “Maybe you should get a tattoo for Boone. Cover up that Ovechkin brand, eh? What do you think?”

Sid instinctively covered the brand with his palm, not wanting it to be seen. He warmed to the idea almost immediately, but: “I’m not sure what I’d get, but I like the notion. It wouldn’t bother you, to look at the symbol of another man’s love on my skin every day?”

“It’s better than the symbol of another man’s _hate._ Besides...I didn’t know Boone, but it sounds like he took care of you, and probably he’s the only reason you’re here with me now. So I owe him a debt of gratitude, I figure.”

“Kris, you - “ Sid laughed helplessly, throwing himself into Kris’ arms. Kris rubbed his back, hands rough over the flogging scars, and the little voice that was constantly anxious about someone touching them was miraculously quiet. “You’re perfect. You know that?”

“Let’s see how long you think that,” Kris teased, and kissed him again.

~~~~~

Kris was... _almost_ perfect, Sid reflected as he watched Kris having a fit at the tailor. Sid was awash in the sweet relaxation of morphine, but even through the drug haze he could see that Kris was being rude. “How can my two arms be different sizes? It doesn’t make any sense! Measure them again, my...my _associate_ here is paying a lot for these suits,” he growled.

“Sir.” The tailor pursed his lips, and Sid could see him biting back a sigh. “It’s fairly common, sir. Sometimes men are born this way, but I believe you mentioned you were a sailor, and especially if you went into the service at a young age, your dominant arm may be quite different than your other.”

“Measure again!”

The tailor did as instructed, showing Kris that they were the exact same size as he measured before. Kris opened his mouth, but Sid spoke before he could. “Kris, it’s _fine._ I believe he’s correct.”

Kris’ mouth turned down. “You’re paying a lot for these, you know? I want them to be perfect.”

“I know. But let the man do his job, and for goodness sake pick a color.”

The suit colors were nothing like Sid had ever seen before. Black or dark brown were the only thing that respectable men wore when he was a young man, but new dyes had been invented, and it had begun to be fashionable to wear brightly patterned stripes and checks. Sid hadn’t been able to shake tradition and had chosen a stately black frock coat and trousers. Kris, on the other hand, was eyeing a garish sack coat and vest, blue-and-green checked through the entire thing. It was certainly...eye-catching, and although he gently encouraged Kris to choose more conservative, to avoid drawing attention, he had a feeling he was going to be overruled.

Eventually, they ended up compromising: a black sack coat, with the vest and trousers in the bright blue-and-green check. Kris’ satisfaction and pleasure at the new fashion he’d soon be receiving turned into a nervous fret as the shopkeeper wrote up their bill. “What?” Sid asked, once they were out of the shop and heading home.

“It’s just so much money,” Kris said. “I know mine was a little more expensive - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have - “

“Relax about the money. Another payment is coming soon. From, uh, the backpay.”

This visibly relaxed Kris, although he still looked a little nervous. “You’re quite sure?”

The party loomed soon, just a few days away, and although the idea made Sid nauseous, he was more sure than ever that Kris was worth it. “I’m quite sure,” he said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be alright.”

Kris smiled back at him, and Sid allowed himself to think that was true. Everything _would_ be alright.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces two new recurring characters.
> 
> [Jiri Fischer (the guy on the left).](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/head-coach-curt-fraser-of-the-grand-rapids-griffins-and-jiri-fischer-picture-id104014092?k=6&m=104014092&s=612x612&w=0&h=-OvJXw4llptp4ftbYdqSR6eqnj8viX04YCs5568DlfE%3D&fbclid=IwAR368bPEqZ_RZa8-jTWWLqyoexgauGEKYhOox9RKPQ1u7W5xSe3AZrsJzlQ) Ex-Detroit Red Wing that almost died on the ice and had to retire early due to a heart condition. He is currently coaching.  
> [Brendan Shanahan.](https://ladiesdotdotdot.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/brendan_shanahan.jpg) Currently the president of the Toronto Maple Leafs, but a Red Wings legend, so he's here.
> 
> And one minor character:
> 
> [Chris Chelios.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/0f/48/42/0f48421ac881f475676486525f3e94bc.jpg) Another Wings legend.

“We look so good!”

Sid couldn’t help but laugh at Kris’ enthusiastic outburst, both of them outfitted in their new suits for the first time. Kris was hogging the mirror to admire himself, but Sid let him have it, and glanced down at his own suit. The pleasurable feeling of looking like a proper gentleman was cut through with the knowledge of why he needed it, where he’d soon be going in this finery.

“You like it, sir?” the tailor asked, and managed to not look smugly vindicated.

“Yes. Uh - sorry for doubting you. You did a wonderful job.” Kris at least had the good manners to look sheepish.

The stack of cash Sid paid the tailor was hefty, and took out a good chunk of their savings. Even though he knew they’d be replenished - and more - at the party that evening, it still made his stomach twist in anxiety. “Just think where we’ll be able to go now, looking like gentleman,” he told Kris, to take his mind off the money.

Kris waited until they were outside and walking home, away from prying ears, before he responded. “Depending on how much additional backpay you’ll receive, the circus is in town this week. Of course, we could always get pit tickets and dress however we want. Those are much cheaper anyway. But for the _best_ view...”

“The box seats. We should be able to afford a pair for sure,” Sid said.

“Are you sure? They’re a lot more expensive.”

Sid hadn’t ever been to the circus, but he _did_ have friends who had previously attended, and he knew the pit was a rowdy, stinking mix of humanity with terrible views. He’d be happy with Kris anywhere, but… “The box seats,” he said again, firmly. “You deserve it.”

 _“We_ deserve it,” Kris said, grinning. “So tell me again where you’re heading off to tonight?”

“Just a dinner party.” Sid took a deep breath; he hated lying to Kris, but what else could he do? “An old pal from the Army.”

“I didn’t even know you ever hung out with those Army boys. And you can’t take a friend?” Kris smiled hopefully, apparently angling for an invite.

“This isn’t really a friends kind of party. More like a...bring your wife kind of party.”

“I bet there will be an eligible young lady or two there, as well. You’d better not forget about me.” Sid glanced over, but Kris was smirking, the joke evident.

“No worries about that,” Sid said. “I’m not overly fond of women. Not like I remember _you_ to be. If anyone has to worry about ‘eligible young ladies’...”

“Women are good. They’re all soft and delicate and they usually smell nice and have pretty features. So it’s weird I’ll never be with one again.” Sid glanced over sharply, eyebrow raised, and Kris shrugged and smiled. “It’s just you now, if you’ll have me. Forever. And I won’t miss women one bit. You’re pretty enough.”

Sid stared down at the cobblestones, away from Kris’ affectionate smile, at the declaration of exclusivity. Someday, he would be able to promise the same, but not now. Not yet. At least he would not be having sex for pleasure; that was something he planned to only give to Kris.

It was a long walk from the tailor, and by the time they arrived home, Sid knew he didn’t have much time before he needed to make the trip to the party. It was a lengthy walk, and Mary had been very insistent he not be late. “Can you come inside? Just for a few minutes?” Kris asked, which is how Sid found himself pressed against the wall next to the dresser, Kris’ mouth hot and slick against his.

“I meant what I said, that I’d wait,” Kris murmured when they finally broke, staying pressed against Sid, hands gently roaming. “But God, you in that suit. It makes it awful hard. You’re so handsome, Sid.”

“Oh, I thought I was _pretty,”_ Sid teased, nipping at Kris’ lower lip. “Now I’m handsome?”

“You’re both. Pretty, and handsome, and beautiful, and oh, I’ll keep thinking of other words to describe you if you want. Amazing? Oh, _gorgeous,_ that’s a good one - “

“Stop,” Sid laughed, sealing his mouth to Kris’ again.

Kris wrenched back after another minute, looking regretful. “You’d better go. You’ll be late.”

“Perhaps I can just...take a carriage to the party instead of walking? Give us a little more ti - ” He never got the word _time_ out; Kris stole it away with a kiss.

Luckily, the suits were pressed and crisp, so even Kris pinning him up against the wall for an extended time didn’t wrinkle it. Sid reluctantly untangled himself from the embrace after a few minutes, bid Kris goodbye, and was out in the street hailing a carriage with some regret.

Sid took out the piece of paper as the horse was slowing in front of a beautiful house, nicer and larger than any he'd ever been inside before. Double checking the address and the time, he nodded, paid the charioteer, and headed up to the front door. He introduced himself to the servant that answered the door, and was promptly brought inside, to the kitchen. There was a bustle of activity inside as cooks and servants whirled about. From what Sid could see, dinner had just been eaten, and they were sending out desserts: dainty little lemon puffs, a fluffy carrot cake, a rich-looking strawberry shortcake, amongst others. Sid shook his head in awe. There was real money in this household based off the amount of sugar that was in front of him, more than he’d ever seen.

"This way," a man appeared next to him, and based on his outfit, he was the butler. He was gesturing to a corner, out of the way, where a few ladies stood. They were beautiful, and well-dressed, and at first Sid thought they were the women attending the dinner party. But it wouldn’t make sense for them to be in the servant’s kitchen. As he got closer, he could see the women wore entirely too much makeup and perfume, and were laughing at a bawdy joke befitting a sailor.

They were prostitutes like him, he realized. Sid felt a bit of relief that he was not the only whore in attendance, although he seemed to be the only _male_ entertainment, which was slightly concerning. "The party should be ready for you soon, everyone. You're the second course of dessert, after all," the butler told the group, smirking, and the ladies laughed uproariously. This was not their first event, it seemed.

As the butler moved away to attend to other matters, Sid noticed the women looking at him, appraisingly. "You look a little nervous, pumpkin," one of them soothed. "First time?"

"At this type of event, yes ma'am. Not for - uh, well - "

They tittered again at his struggle to maintain propriety in front of them. "Just put on a smile and pretend you're having the best time in the world," she encouraged. "And you'll do great."

"You don't have trouble performing in front of a crowd, do you?" another asked, and Sid did not like what that question implied.

The butler reappeared with a steaming cup of tea, and handed it to Sid. "What's this, now?" Sid peered into the cup at the orange-hued liquid.

"Tea, made from the bark of the yohimbe tree. It'll be your best friend, tonight."

So this must be that 'love tree' that Mary had referenced. Sid sipped it slowly. It tasted a unique kind of awful that he'd never had before and hoped never to after. "Do you know what this does, exactly?" he asked one of the prostitutes.

"Well, I've never taken it myself, of course - that's a man's tea," she told him. "But it's supposed to lower your inhibitions, give you a little high, and make it so you can get hard again all night."

"The perfect drug for this kind of party," another remarked, dryly.

Halfway through the drink, the butler told them it was time to go, so Sid tossed the rest of it back, nearly retched, and followed the women out to the main dining and living room spaces.

"Entertainment is here!" one of the men shouted loudly, to whoops and hollers and laughter from the assembled crowd. Sid scanned the faces quickly. Nearly everyone in attendance was older, 40s, 50s, a few even older than that, but a couple guys looking around Sid's age. He couldn't name a single person besides the Stevens'; not even the men in their Pittsburgh Army uniforms looked familiar. That was good. He didn't need the embarrassment of being known here.

Immediately, one of the older men swooped up to the lady on his right, and she giggled. "Now I know what I've been missing my whole life, beautiful," he growled, and kissed her. The other women were quickly picked off, as well, and Sid was left alone, awkward and fidgety. He noticed the women of the room murmuring together in bunches, openly staring at him.

"Mary, you've outdone yourself this time, he's _adorable,"_ one of the women sighed.

"I want to see him naked," another voice called out, and there were calls of agreement throughout the group.

Mary put up her hand for quiet, grinning broadly. "Strip for us, Sidney?"

This, Sid had not been expecting, for twenty women to stare hungrily at him while he took his clothes off. Weren’t these _proper_ women, with a million etiquette rules and delicate constitutions? Was this truly what the upper class did at parties? But he nodded, dutifully, and started by loosening his tie.

Each item of clothing removed brought a new round of calls and whistles and girlish giggles. Behind the women, Sid could already see one of the women he came in with, pressed naked up against the wall, three pairs of hands pawing at her. He forcibly pulled his gaze from the scene and concentrated on getting naked and staying calm. Sid was suddenly very aware of how his naked body was going to look to upper-class women. Would they be horrified at the marks and scars? Send him away without fucking him and without pay? Would that be a curse or a godsend if they did?

He folded his suit as he removed it, leading to a fresh round of whispers from the gathered women. "Oh, he is so proper," one of them laughed.

"Look at his back," someone murmured. "Why would you whip a pleasure slave like that?"

"Maybe he came from the fields," came a reply, and Sid searched through the crowd for the source of the discussion, eyes wide. Had he heard they correctly? Did they say _slave?_ He whirled around, putting his back towards the wall and away from the group of women, out of view.

He didn't have much time to think on it further. "I'm first," a petite, fierce-looking woman demanded, pushing through the crowd to march up to Sid and take his hand. "Come on, big boy. Let's have some fun."

"Leave some for the rest of us," somebody called out as she dragged Sid towards their destination. As they moved through the crowd of women, there were hands on him, touching his stomach, his arms, his ass, squeezing and fondling. He heard a few more off-handed comments about his scars, the brand, but couldn't quite hear what they were saying due to how quickly he was being tugged away. He tried to stuff down his anxiety as the lady smiled at him. "I'm Emma," she introduced. "Emma Shanahan. I wanted to get you first. Especially because I know my husband will be very interested in you, too. You're just his type. But let him have the sloppy seconds, right?"

"Right," Sid agreed, and blinked hard. There were colors moving around the periphery of his vision now, like the northern lights, but he found that he wasn't terribly bothered by it, actually. In fact, by the time Emma had found an empty room and shoved him into it, he was feeling significantly more relaxed about the whole situation. Suddenly, she was pressed against him, nails stuck hard into his neck as she yanked him down to kiss him.

It took awhile, but the promised effects of the tea - lower inhibitions, sex all night - seemed like they were kicking in while he distracted her by delicately licking between her thighs until she demanded Sid fuck her. By that time, he was hard enough to perform, and was shocked to find he didn't feel quite as dead as he normally did in these situations. There was even a small, smoldering pit of desire in his stomach at the whimpering woman underneath him, and there were mild hallucinations of color playing at the edge of his vision. It made the whole thing a little surreal, like the whole evening thus far had been a dream, and it allowed Sid to pretend like it was, which made him feel a bit better.

"Oh, you're such a treat," she praised once they'd finished, rubbing the wispy hairs on his chin. "Someone's trained you well." He wasn't quite sure what to say to that, or what it meant, so he just offered a thin smile. "Well, let's get you back to the party, or the other ladies are simply going to burst in here to get to you!"

She didn't bother putting her clothes back on when they returned to the main room, and was met with bawdy laughs from the other women. "Took you long enough," one of them teased.

"Maybe I wanted to keep him all for myself," she shot back, grinning, but gave him a gentle push towards the group of women. They reminded Sid of a pack of wolves that he watched take down a muskoxen, once, when he was sailing far in the north, a carefully crafted predator group. Someone grabbed his cock, and after a few moments of ministrations, he was half-hard again, being pushed down on the couch in the corner of the room, one of the women climbing on top of him.

"Here?!" Sid squeaked in protest, but she ignored it and rubbed against him until he was hard enough to slip inside.

She rode him for what seemed like ages, but he never came, and finally she climbed off, sated enough herself. "That tea is kicked in," another woman noted. "But I'll bet I can make him come."

"Two dollars says you can't," someone shot back, and before Sid could quite process the situation, there was a round of bets, and a fresh woman on top of him. Some of the men had wandered over now, too, talking and laughing and joining in on the gambling. He felt a vague, horrified reaction, somewhere deep in his gut, that he was on view to everyone, and they were betting on him like a horse. But whatever drug was in the tea was soothing his brain. _Just let it happen,_ the tea whispered to him, _and you'll be fine. This isn't so bad. Maybe you even like it._

Sid lost track of the time and the number of women: blondes, brunettes, even a stocky redhead doing everything they could to win the bet and make him come, ordering him to fuck them, or riding him, or sucking his dick. Finally, one of the women got him over the edge, paying studious attention to his balls for five long minutes during a blowjob. There were cheers and some disappointed curses when he whimpered and came all over his stomach, and the winner of the bet stood up, bowed like she had just finished the lead role in a play and was recognizing the accolades on stage.

The Detroit Navy and their women, Sid realized in a haze, were very different from Pittsburgh's prim and proper elite. Or maybe this _was_ just what all the rich folks did, in the privacy of their upper-crust parties. Sid had never been privy to these kinds of soirees; but he realized, with some dismay, that when he made captain, one of the first things he'd done was daydream about finally attending a dinner party with other well-to-do people. Never had he imagined it would be anything like this. As a captain, he wasn't high enough in rank, but surely further promotions would be coming, he'd figured at the time. He'd been the youngest captain in Pittsburgh history. The world was his for the taking. How things changed, that he had finally secured an invite to the bash, but to do...this.

"Alright, ladies, I think you've had your fun, it's time to share," a deep voice, amused, cut through the giggles and cheers, and suddenly there was a man in front of him, gently pulling Sid to his feet. "Hi there," he said, his face open and friendly. Suddenly, Emma Shanahan - the first woman he'd fucked that evening - appeared next to the man, looking delighted.

"Brendan, honey, this is who I was telling you about! See, isn't he just your type? Dark, mysterious, handsome, brooding?"

"He's very nice," Brendan agreed, waving at a servant to come clean Sid up, wipe down the come from his stomach and dab away the sweat. "What's your name?"

"Sid...ney. Sidney," Crosby said, deciding suddenly that he didn't want anyone here to call him _Sid._ All of the bad things in life happened when people called him Sidney. Every time he'd been reprimanded by the Navy, it was Sidney. In the brothel, it was almost always Sidney. To Ovechkin, he was Sidney too. Let Sidney take this abuse, he decided, and he would save _Sid_ for his friends. For Kris.

"It's nice to meet you, Sidney. I'm Brendan." Shanahan dragged Sid's hips against his, then slid his hands further back to grab his ass, whistling low-pitched at the grab and squeezing. "Oh, yes, that is _very_ nice. We're going to have a very good time tonight, Sidney, don't you think?" He didn't wait for Sid to answer; instead, he surged forward for a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue immediately into Sid's mouth.

Sid felt a rush of panic as the kiss ended and he noticed that there was still a sizeable crowd in the area. Some were watching the scene with interest; others were simply treating it as background entertainment, chatting and laughing together in groups over little snacks, which were being offered on trays by servants. Sid was led to a long chaise lounge and pulled gently down onto it, his ass turned to the ceiling on Shanahan's lap like a disobedient child, face pressed to the stiff fabric. "Sidney, your ass is just a marvel," Brendan murmured. "I'm going to spank you, now, but I promise I won't hurt you too badly. If it gets too much, just say so, okay?" Again, he didn't wait for an answer, clapping his open palm onto Sid's cheek with a resounding, fleshy _slap._

The smacks weren't too hard, as Shanahan promised, but they kept coming, until Sid could tell the flesh was likely red and blazing, and he whimpered in pain, squirming on Shanahan's lap. Brendan stopped, then, smoothing his hand on the abused flesh. "You did great, Sidney," he enthused. "You take it so well."

Someone, a man's voice above, barked a laugh. "Here, Shanny, take the oil. Jesus, you really do like asses, don't you?"

"Oh, Chelios, and you don't?"

"I'm more interested in that mouth of his. You see those lips?"

There was a shock of slickness then, someone pouring oil between his thigh, and then a slippery finger, clinically working its way inside. "I kissed him earlier. Trust me, Chris, they're soft as they look," he heard Brendan say. "Whoever owns him is a lucky man. Well, look, why don't you take advantage while I'm getting him ready? Not like he's doing anything else with his mouth, huh?"

 _Owns?_ Sid's brain clung to that word in a haze of confusion, burrowing his face further into the scratchy fabric of the chaise lounge to keep from moaning. What did they take him for?

Whatever was in the tea had also, seemingly, helped everything relax more than normal. Sid anticipated the typical pain that came from unwanted sex, but Shanahan's finger pushed in easily; it was still uncomfortable and unwanted, but at least it didn't hurt too badly. There was a gentle yank at his hair, and he glanced up blearily to see a cock in his face, half-hard and resting on the man's stomach. _Chelios,_ Brendan had called him.

"Help me out," he smiled encouragingly, his tone kind but firm, and Sid dropped his jaw open for him.

Chelios gently cradled Sid's neck while he sucked, fingers sifting through the short, fine tufts of hair at his nape. _This isn't so bad,_ Sid thought, while Chris mumbled out encouragement and praise. These men weren't taking Sid like they were in charge, like they had some sort of birthright to do so. No, they were acting like Sid was here because he wanted it, treating it almost like a consensual encounter between peers. Shanahan even apologized when Sid flinched as he tried to add a second finger too soon.

"Sorry, Sidney," he patted Sid's ass fondly, adding some more oil. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. Cheli, how's that mouth?"

"Fucking great," he said. "God, he can take it all, see?"

"How's that?" Shanahan asked, slowly pressing in the second finger with the help of the additional lube.

Sid pulled off Chelios to answer, breath ragged and hot against Chris' stomach. "Fine," he panted, and both men made a disappointed noise.

"Just fine?" Brendan asked. "I want it more than fine. I want you screaming my name out of that big pretty mouth of yours, Sidney. Wait, let me try - " He twisted his fingers around, experimentally, and when that didn't produce the desired reaction, started curling them around, feeling for something.

"Oh- _hhh,"_ Sid choked as warm, intense sensations flooded his groin. Brendan made a pleased noise and did it again, and again, until Sid was grinding into his lap, whimpering out an _ohgodohgodohgod._

"Just Brendan is fine, no need to call me God," Shanahan said, sounding exceptionally pleased.

Chelios watched with some interest. "What are you doing to him?"

"Hully told me about it. Says his pleasure slave goes crazy when he curls his fingers inside him. Apparently there's some sort of 'abdominal brain' here."

"Abdominal brain? Looks like abdominal something else to me," Chelios laughed, regarding Sid's open-mouthed whines with amusement. Sid vaguely registered that 's' word again, _slave,_ but it slipped right through his consciousness and was discarded in favor of the intense sensations he was experiencing. "C'mon, Sidney, let's not waste an open mouth now, hmm?" He patted his dick against Sid's lips, sighed happily when Sid stretched his mouth wider to accommodate him, his groans muffled now around Chris' cock.

"You're never going to be able to hit that while you're fucking him," Chelios mocked his friend.

"Oh, we'll see," Brendan growled, sounding intensely excited at the challenge. He pulled his fingers out, gently smacking Sid on the ass. "Off my lap, Sidney, on your knees."

Sid did as asked, gingerly climbing off Brendan's lap to settle on his knees on the chaise lounge. He held back a wince; his knee was starting to grumble a little at him, the old injury returning at all the positions from tonight. It didn't hurt quite yet, but it was the precursor to pain. He stifled any discomfort, leaned over to go back down on Chelios, but was stopped by Chris grabbing his chin and raising Sid's face to his own.

"Hey - Sidney, right?" Chelios asked, stroking his cheek. "Before you finish me, I gotta ask, can I come in your mouth? Or should I come on your face?"

"What would you prefer?"

Brendan laughed as he took a spot behind Sid, one foot on the floor and one up on the couch, sliding his cock along the slippery oil between Sid's thighs. "Oh, he is well trained, eh?"

"I want to come in your mouth," Chelios grinned, tilting his hips up. "I want you to swallow it all."

"Here we go," Brendan told him, unnecessarily, as Sid could feel the blunt tip at his entrance, pushing inside, slowly. "I want you to feel every inch," Shanahan growled, and Sid nodded, breath growing ragged. Chelios gave him only until Brendan had fully seated inside, was starting to rock, before urging Sid's face back down to his lap for more of his mouth.

A sharp wolf-whistle from someone in the audience snapped Sid momentarily back to reality. He had a man in his mouth and another inside him, two men fucking both ends, and there were people watching and laughing and _oh God what am I doing how did I end up like this…_

The bubbling panic and anxiety was abruptly blown away as Brendan found that spot inside Sid again; Sid keened around Chelios' cock, knee nearly collapsing. "I fucking found it, I told you, Cheli," Brendan jeered, triumphantly, angled now to hit it.

"Well keep doing it," Chris panted. "Holy fuck, just keep him moaning around my dick, Shanny. That's it, Sidney, so good - " The soft strokes from Chris' hand on the back of his neck became a pinched sensation as Chelios fisted his hair and yanked, hips twitching up involuntarily.

"So _fucking_ good," Shanahan agreed, snagging Sid's upper thighs to thrust harder, and then Chris was snarling out curses and epitaphs, coming down his throat.

"Good boy," Chris panted, petting his hair. "Thank you."

"My turn," Shanahan growled as Chris finally scooted back, off the couch. He snaked a hand under Sid to circle his fingers around his cock. "I told you, I want you screaming my name. Say it, Sidney."

"Brendan," Sid whimpered, as Shanahan started to stroke him.

"Louder." He angled again, trying a few different thrusts before he got it right, and Sid cried as requested.

"Brendan," he wailed, scratching his nails down the fabric of the lounge. "Oh God, oh fuck, Brendan, please, _Brendan - "_

The begging seemed to send Shanahan over the edge, and he pulled out, grabbing Sid's shoulder roughly to flip him over. "Suck," he commanded, and Sid opened his mouth, trying not to choke as Shanahan face-fucked him. It only lasted a few short moments before he, too, was coming down Sid's throat.

Brendan grinned down at him, a smug, satisfied smile, kneeling so he could jerk Sid off some more. "I got you, Sidney," he soothed, at Sid’s surprised look. "I wouldn't leave you hanging. Not when you did so good for me." Despite himself, Sid was teetering on the edge, and lifted his hips at the attention. "You're close, aren't you? You loved that, I could tell, gripping my dick like a vise, like you never wanted to let it go. You begged so good for me, Sidney," Brendan praised.

"Faster," Sid whispered, eyes closed and trying to ignore the warring voices in his head, one voice crying out in pleasure and reminding him that Shanahan _expected_ his orgasm so he may as well enjoy it, and the other voice thinking of Kris, murmuring about betrayal.

Shanahan complied, leaning close to murmur, "You look amazing like this," and then Sid was coming with a low sob, followed by a low, rumbling headache. He hadn't come this much in years, and he was so thirsty all of a sudden.

Brendan leaned down for a kiss, patting his chest fondly, and then he was gone, off through the crowd like nothing had happened.

There was another man approaching, looking for his turn, but Mary had appeared and was cutting him off. "Give him fifteen minutes," she scolded, in a friendly manner. "Let him get a drink and maybe something to eat and he'll be right back out to serve you."

Sid was helped off the chaise lounge by a servant, followed him into the kitchen with a slight limp. Being so much on his knees had tweaked the old wound, and he reached down to massage it while two women wiped him clean.

"Do you want us to leave the oil?" one of them asked, the wet rag between his legs.

"Why?"

"Oh," she tilted her head with a smile. "In case they aren't done with you."

Sid pursed his lips. He was spent, exhausted, but he knew there was a very real possibility that someone else was going to take a turn with him, and they might not be quite as nice as Shanahan. "Leave it," he sighed, so they cleaned up everything else and offered him a glass of water, which he chugged.

He was on his third glass of water and through a small plate of leftover food when someone bumped his elbow. Sid glanced over, and there was a man, bare-chested, but his pants were of the Detroit Navy. This man was young, looked barely older than Sid. For a party with upper-ranking military men and their spouses, with higher rank generally coming with age, this was unusual.

"Oh, finish eating, please. I just wanted to make sure I was able to catch you alone. Having sex in crowds really isn't my thing," he smiled, a little shyly. "I was hoping to maybe have you meet me in one of the back rooms, after you're done. Just a blowjob? I promise not to be rough."

"Just give me a moment - "

"Like I said, finish eating." The man patted Sid on the arm in a friendly manner, stepping back and patiently waiting until Sid was finished with the food. Sid had a fourth glass of water before nodding slowly at the officer, who took his hand, walking with him through the kitchen and slipping into the hallway where the bedrooms were located.

"My name's Jiri. Fischer," he told Sid. "And you're Sidney, correct?"

Sid nodded again, tired. Jiri found an empty bedroom and pulled them inside, shutting the door.

"Party's almost over, Sidney. I know Shanny worked you over pretty good. So I normally wouldn't even really ask, but it's been awhile, and I'd - well, I'd be grateful."

Sid tilted his head at the polite request for sex. The good manners were unusual, and he appreciated it. "It's no problem, Mr. Fischer."

"Oh Jesus no, call me Jiri. Okay?"

"Right. Jiri," Sid agreed, as he sank to his knees in front of Fischer, unable to suppress a short hiss of pain.

"Your knee hurts," Jiri noted correctly, grabbing his wrist. "Stand up, the floor will be terrible for you. Come on, we'll use the bed."

The blowjob was neat and easy; Sid was thankful for the opportunity to lay on his stomach instead of his knees while sucking Jiri off, and Fischer himself was just as polite during sex as he was in the kitchen, keeping his hands off Sid's head and his hips mostly still, not thrusting down Sid's throat. He came quickly, with a soft groan, so Sid figured it must have been awhile, just as he'd said.

"Thank you," Jiri smiled, brilliantly, sitting up on his elbows and wincing as he caught sight of Sid's back, the scars twisted there. "Oh, I saw that in the kitchen. I can't believe your owner would do that to you. Whipping a slave of your quality? He doesn't appreciate you like he should."

"Slave?" Sid felt his stomach drop, and Jiri started to look alarmed, like he could tell something was wrong.

"Well, yes...you've got an ownership brand, right there - ?"

Sid grabbed his breast, hiding the eagle. "That's not a - ...you have slaves, in Detroit?" There were no slaves in Pittsburgh. Not legally, at least.

"Not as many as there used to be, but yes. Back in the day, you had tons of slaves, working fields, picking crops, those kinds of things. Nowadays that labor is mostly ‘indentured servitude’ instead which, if you ask me, is just a fancier word for _slave,_ but what do I know. But the rich still keep house slaves and pleasure slaves. I figured you had to be the latter, with, well..." Jiri tilted his head in confusion. "You're not a slave? I mean, you've clearly been trained - oh..." Fischer trailed off at the horrified look that statement brought from Sid.

"I'm not a _slave,"_ Sid bit, feeling tears threatening behind his eyes. "I'm a free man."

"But, the brand - "

"Pirates," he interrupted, and Sid didn't even know why he was still talking and telling Jiri all this, but he felt like he needed to convince this man that he wasn't a slave. He didn't want anyone to be able to tell he'd _ever_ been a slave, scrabbled desperately at the explanation. "I was a Navy captain, for Pittsburgh. Pirates caught me and branded me."

"Wait." Jiri fully sat up now, eyes wide and horrified. "You were a _captain_ in Pittsburgh's Navy, and now you're doing...this? Are you serious? Why?" Sid stayed silent, looking miserable, and Jiri shook his head. "I mean, is this something you... _enjoy?"_

"No!" Sid burst out. "No, absolutely not. But I can't...I came home with this bad knee, and they won't let me back out on a ship. And I just can't take the so-called promotion and sit at a desk _pushing papers_ all day. Maybe you're okay with it, but I'm not. But I still have to eat. And I have people who rely on me, people who I have to take care of."

"You know, most men who need to take care of families, they get a job they can talk about in polite company. Fishmonger or merchant or factory worker or railcar engineer or...well, you get my point. Let me guess, it’s not _just_ that you and your family have to eat.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Snort, inject, smoke, whatever. What’s your poison?” Sid was momentarily stunned silent, and Jiri smiled at his dismayed look. “I think more than anyone here, I understand it. Look at me, I’m younger than most men here, right? I was just like you: young, promising officer, excited to make a difference. But I kept fainting. I’d be out there inspecting the maps or helping rig the sails and _bam,_ out on the deck. It killed me, you know? To be stuck on land. To be a _paper-pusher._ So I started chasing away my worries. Cocaine, for me.”

Sid shook his head, wishing dearly that they were not having this conversation while he was naked. “Cocaine isn’t addictive. And neither is - look, I enjoy morphine occasionally. That has _nothing_ to do with this. It’s not addictive either, and I can stop whenever I want.”

“Oh sure, that’s why you have to do this job...possibly the most _terrible_ job I can think of...which you’ve just admitted you don’t enjoy. But it pays well, no? Well enough for plenty of drugs.”

“Nobody enjoys their job, Mr. Fischer. Don’t act like I am unusual in that regard.” _Almost_ nobody enjoys their job, Sid thought with regret; he’d loved being a Naval captain. But he needed to stop dreaming of the past. Those days were over and never coming back. “Now if you’ll excuse me - “

“I almost died, you know,” Jiri said, quietly. “I know they say cocaine isn’t addictive, isn't harmful. But doctors don't know everything. I’d be dead right now if I didn’t quit. And I bet you’re taking more and more morphine, aren’t you? If you _can_ quit at any time, do it. Do it and find some job that doesn’t have you killing your soul. You seem like a bright man; don’t let it go to waste. It doesn’t need to be this way for you, Sidney.”

The professional and polite side of Sid snapped at that last statement. “You sit here and put me down, but who’s worse: the whore, or the man who _uses_ the whore?” Jiri at least had the good sense to look ashamed at that, and Sid continued. “You don’t know anything about me. So don't sit there with the audacity to criticize my choices and tell me that I can do better. Just fucking don't. And don’t pretend like you _care._ I sucked your dick, we’re not friends. You don’t have the right. No right at all to talk to me this way.”

"Sidney - "

"I'm being paid to fuck you, not listen to this," Sid spat, dismissing Jiri with a wave of his hand and heading for the door. He ignored one more entreaty from Fischer, moving out the door into the hallway. He had taken only a few steps when he nearly bumped into Shanahan, again.

"Sidney," Brendan greeted enthusiastically, and his wife appeared next to him with the same smile. "Thanks, again, for a great time. I was hoping maybe - could you turn around? I want to see your back."

Sid didn’t want to, but clenched his jaw and spun around slowly, looking over his shoulder to see the couple exchange sad glances. "See, honey, this is what I was telling you about," Brendan said, his touch gentle on Sid's back. "Did you see this, when you had him? Someone doesn't value him at all."

"You're that smitten, huh," Emma smirked at her husband, who grinned back. "Oh, fine. Make a bid for him, then."

"I mean, if he's doing _this_ shit, he'll probably let Sidney go for cheap, don't you think?" Brendan gently turned Sid back around, to face them. "We were hoping you could tell us who your master is. I think it's a damn shame he's abusing you and scarring you like he has. I know it's legal, but you're so sweet, it seems really unnecessary. So we'd like to talk to him about buying you."

Sid shook his head, tried to explain. "Oh, no, I - "

"I know you're trying to protect your master," Brendan cut him off. "But we'll be so good to you, Sidney. I think you'll really enjoy being ours. Didn’t we both make sure you had fun with us tonight?"

"No, but I'm not - "

"Even if you think he won't sell you, every man has his price, trust me."

"Shanny," there was a calm, confident voice suddenly at the end of the hall, and Sid looked up to see a smiling, handsome older gentleman. He wasn't in uniform, but Sid could tell he was someone important, high-ranking, just from his demeanor. Next to him was Jiri Fischer.

"Admiral Lidstrom," Emma greeted the older man with a courteous little bow.

"Nicky," Brendan smiled in confusion. "What's up?"

"Just trying to save your ass from embarrassment, as always," Nick winked, fondly. "This man isn't a slave, Shanny."

"Wait - what? No? But...?"

"Not an ownership brand, Shanny."

"But out there..." Brendan tilted his head in confusion at Sid. "Not a slave. Oh! A whore, then?"

"For now," Jiri spoke up, pointedly staring at Sid, who flushed in anger and humiliation.

"Oh! Well, sorry, Sidney. My mistake. But, you know, if you're doing this because you're in some debt, maybe we could work out a debt bondage situation - we'd pay off your debts, and - "

"Shanny," Nick gently cut in, grabbing ahold of Sid's arm. "Let the poor boy be. He's had a long night." Lidstrom turned to Sid. "You're going to wash up, get your clothes on, get paid, and head home. And if anyone tries to stop you, send them to me. My name is Admiral Nick Lidstrom. Okay?"

Sid flicked his gaze to Jiri, and had the distinct feeling he had something to do with this. He also knew, somehow, that Lidstrom's word would be final, that nobody would dare say otherwise. "Yes, sir," he agreed, and turned to go.


	46. Chapter 46

Sid took a deep breath on the street outside their flat, smoothing his hands down his chest. The suit was still impeccable - it had been removed rather quickly, after all - but his knee was hot and twingy, and he _felt_ rumpled. He only hoped Kris would not be able to tell, and tried not to limp coming up the stairs.

“Sid,” Kris greeted him warmly as he entered, setting aside his book and hopping off the bed to embrace him. “How was the party?”

“Very good,” Sid lied, hugging Kris back. “Although I missed you.”

“Same.” Kris’ smile went a little flat, confused, as he leaned close. “Is that...perfume? That’s definitely...you smell like perfume.”

“Perfume?” Sid laughed, trying to sound natural. “Kris, you’re drunk.” That wasn’t a lie; he could smell the alcohol on Kris’ breath.

“Not _that_ drunk.”

“I - …” He licked his mouth, forced a smile. “The only thing I can think is there were a few old acquaintances I knew that hugged me, both the men and their wives. I know, I know, they’re quite bohemian. It’s the new thing to do.”

“Women hugging men they’re not married to? Wow. I suppose the world has changed a lot.” Kris seemed to be a little more receptive to the lie in his inebriated state, and Sid sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it apparently worked. “Well, I did say you were pretty earlier. Now you _smell_ pretty, too.”

“You think?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Kris murmured, and when he leaned in for a kiss Sid met him eagerly. Partly because he _wanted_ to kiss Kris, always wanted to; but partly because he figured the suspicions of perfumes and women would be lost in roaming hands and slick mouths. Unfortunately, Kris leaned on him just a little too much, putting pressure on his sore knee, and he hissed into Kris’ mouth, who immediately backed off, eyes wide. “Sid? What…?”

“Nothing, it’s fine, it’s fine. Just my knee. Old injury. A lot of standing, tonight.”

Kris gently led him over to the bed and sat him down. “Old injury? I don’t remember you having - _oh._ It was...after, wasn’t it.” His jaw went tight for a moment, but then his eyes lit up and he turned towards Sid’s old sack, still hanging on the wall in the corner. “You have a cane!”

“Kris,” Sid protested weakly, but he was already over and digging the cane out, hefting it in his hands. He paused, then reached back in the bag, and pulled out the trinket box, examining it curiously.

“What this?”

“It’s a gift, but I can’t...please, Kris, I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Just the sight of it was a sharp, painful reminder about what he’d lost, and if anything, it made him feel _worse_ about tonight. He knew if Boone or Ryan were still around, they’d be horrified at what he’d voluntarily done that evening at the party.

Kris quickly replaced it back in the sack, out of sight. “Sorry,” he said, guilt marring his features, coming back over and propping the cane next to the bed. “I didn’t mean to push. I know some things are still painful. One day, I’d like to know about them, when you’re ready. But until then…”

“I promise, I’ll tell you someday. Not now. Not tonight.” Even the cane felt wrong and out of place, like his old life was invading this new one, but at least it was practical; Sid could tell he’d likely need to utilize it the next day. “Don’t suppose you could get me my morphine kit?”

The night ended on a sweeter note than it had begun, with Sid lolling in Kris’ arms as he floated on morphine, letting Kris read him a book by candlelight until he drank too much to see the words. He fell asleep firmly ensconced in Kris’ embrace and dreamt of a blissful nothing.

~~~~~

The circus was everything Sid had ever dreamt about and more. He was enamoured with the huge white tent, its inviting _ENTER HERE!_ sign in bold red and blue, the sights and sounds of happy couples all around him, and most importantly Kris by his side. He stepped up to the ticket booth and didn’t even try to contain his smile at being able to order box seats; no matter what terrible things he had to do to earn the money, Kris’ delight was palpable and made it all worth it.

His knee still bothered him, even a few days after the terrible dinner party, but Sid didn’t look out of place with his cane. Canes for fashion were starting to fade from popularity, but plenty of men still carried them even though they were not actually used to assist in walking. He tried not to lean too much on the cane and pretend that his, too, was all for show.

“Look at this, Sid,” Kris enthused as they were shown to their seats by a proper usher. “What a view.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Sid peeked around at the other seats; above them were bleachers, people crammed in as tight as possible, unlike the actual velvet-lined individual seats they had. Behind them was the pit, people without even a seat, shabby-looking men and women craning their necks for the best view.

The tent was well-lit, so they couldn’t hold hands, but they pressed close while watching the show. There were bards wearing flesh-colored outfits, made to look naked, telling bawdy jokes; acrobats and gymnasts, with Kris grabbing at him as they flew practically overhead; horsemanship feats, the animals close enough that Sid could hear them snorting and huffing. At the end, they brought out a menagerie of animals: a lion, a tiger, two panthers and even an elephant. Their handlers showed them off with elaborate tricks, causing the crowd to gasp.

Later, when the show was over, they sat together on a pier, scrounging the last bits of popcorn out of a bag while chatting and laughing, not quite ready for the evening to be over. “Did you see that tiger’s teeth?” Kris asked, eyes alight. “And its claws. I can’t believe the ringmaster put his _head_ in its _mouth._ Someone trained it well, eh?”

_Well trained._ The phrase brought back a shock of memories from the party, and Sid almost choked on a kernel. “Right,” he said, coughing, as Kris smacked him on the back.

“Don’t go choking on me, now,” he smiled, transitioning from slapping Sid’s back to rubbing it gently. “I can’t lose you again.”

“You won’t,” Sid promised, and Kris’ hand slowly moved from his back to his thigh, still rubbing.

“Sid - I, uh.” Kris cleared his throat softly, setting aside the now-empty popcorn bag. “I really had a lot of fun tonight. I know we couldn’t hold hands like those couples around us, but just being there, next to you, it meant a lot to me. Um, if you want. If you’re _ready._ I’d like to go home and show you how much I appreciate it.”

Sid’s mouth was suddenly dry, licking his lips, still salty from the popcorn. “What exactly…?”

“No sex,” Kris amended in a rush, keeping his voice low. “Not yet, unless you want. Just. You lay back, and I - with my, um, mouth, I can...well. You know. If you want. Because I want. I mean, I’d like to.”

“I don’t want you to feel obligated.” Sid frowned, rubbing his thumb along the silver tip of the cane. He’d traded sex for favors and good treatment countless times; he wasn’t like that, didn’t want to accept that bargain. Sid didn’t need his dick sucked as a _thank you_ for circus tickets.

“God, Sid, this isn’t an obligation. Neither of us ever _owes_ the other one anything for a nice gesture, much less...you know. I meant what I said. I really _want_ to. And I don’t expect anything in return.” Kris glanced around, making sure they were still out of earshot of everyone else. “Maybe we can just go home and I can kiss you, and you can decide then if you want me to go any further. No pressure.”

“No pressure. Okay.” Sid smiled weakly, feeling foolish; he could accept sex from strangers, but somehow the idea of sex with Kris was a mix of intense, sometimes contradictory emotions. It didn’t make sense. He wanted, oh how he _wanted,_ but there was also a certain amount of trepidation that Kris would hate it, fear that he didn’t deserve Kris’ affections like this, and a thin current of guilt. He figured after Boone’s death that he’d never have sex for pleasure again, and yet here he was, burning up over the thought of Kris’ mouth.

“Come on,” Kris said, hopping to his feet and helping Sid to his. “How’s the knee?”

“Better. I took a nice shot of morphine before we left home, but it’s already wearing off. Might just have to go slow, walking home.”

“We could take a carriage.” Kris gestured to a few of the cabriolets stationed at the circus entrance, opportunistic business owners awaiting a fare. “I have money. I can pay. Actually, I insist. Let’s go!”

Sid offered a few protests, but he knew once Kris’ mind was made up, there was little ground to be gained. Soon they were flying down the cobblestone streets, pressed close together in the carriage, the leather hood offering a small bit of privacy. Kris leaned close; between the hood and the thundering hooves, there was little danger of being overheard. “Have I told you how handsome you look tonight?” he murmured.

“Are you kidding me? Did you see that family in front of us, the old man, his wife and his teen daughter? Both of those women were eyeing you up all night.”

“Too bad for them I’m taken,” Kris winked. “I thought it couldn’t get better than you in your dress uniform. I’d see you greet visiting captains in your finery, and I’d stand there next to you and think the filthiest things. But I was wrong. It does get better. You here in that suit, going home with _me.”_

Sid blushed a little, not quite sure how to take those compliments. “Shush, you’ll be overheard,” he said instead, but pressed a little closer to Kris until they were stuck together, hip-on-hip.

They arrived home and Kris paid the carriage driver; Sid felt a little shaky as he fished out his key from his pocket, with each step up to their flat bringing him closer to Kris’ hands on him. But as their door came into view, he paused. There was a letter, stuck into the crack between the door and frame, and Sid snatched it up before Kris could grab it. He passed along the key so Kris could unlock the door as he turned the envelope over, and his heart stuttered when he saw the seal, a winged wheel pressed into the red wax.

It was the symbol of the Detroit Navy.

“What do you have there?” Kris asked, stepping inside, and Sid gently turned his body to hide the seal as he opened the letter.

“It’s for me. One moment,” he said, crumpling the envelope and its seal in his palm as he skimmed the letter. He first dropped his gaze to the signature, _Shanahan,_ then back up to the content.

_Sidney,_

_I hope you won’t be too offended that we inquired to your whereabouts. Emma and I had a truly amazing time the other night and we were hoping you offered private housecalls. We would match your fee from the soiree, and it would only be myself and my wife to service. You will have an enjoyable evening, I promise; trust me, I have not forgotten that spot that made you scream._

_If agreeable, please call on The Carnegie House in two days’ time at 18:30. Show this invitation to the porter when you arrive and you will be escorted up._

_We very much hope to see you then._

_Brendan Shanahan_

“Sid?” Kris asked, and Sid became aware he was staring at the letter, reading it over and over again. He hadn’t intended to do this again, not so quickly, but - to _match the fee_ from the party - it was a lot of money.

“Sorry, sorry.” Sid folded the letter back up and headed over to his knapsack on the wall, stuffing it inside.

“You look upset.”

Sid set his cane gently against the wall. “Well, the Navy needs to see me for some final paperwork. I guess when you’re declared dead but are truly alive, the paperwork never really stops.”

Kris rolled his eyes in sympathy. “God, paperwork and the Navy? That could take you damn near all night.”

“Right.”

“But maybe, uh. Maybe we can think about the Navy later? You still want to…?”

“Yes please,” he murmured, and Kris was next to him in an instant, gently plucking at his suit jacket as they kissed.

Kris undressed him carefully, almost delicately, hanging each article of clothing on the rack until Sid was down to his drawers and undershirt. He tried not to squirm as Kris took him in, eyes sweeping from head to toe; normally his undergarments were loose, with a little breathing room. But these fine suits had required new undergarments as well, form-fitting and flannel, and they hid nothing. “You too,” Sid said.

“Me too?”

“You get undressed too,” Sid clarified. “I mean, down to undergarments.” Kris was still in his suit, and as pretty of a picture as it was, it reminded Sid too much of being on display, ready for the next customer.

“You’re sure?”

“Please?”

Kris didn’t need more convincing; he undressed himself speedily, almost sloppily in contrast to his care in removing Sid’s clothes. His undergarments were just as new and just as tight, and there was an obvious tent in the front that sent a thrill up Sid’s spine. “Please,” Sid said again, but this time as a plea, and he welcomed Kris with a kiss.

Just as Sid wanted, Kris was a comforting weight on top of him. _Safe._ Kris kissed him like he mattered, like he was worthwhile. Only after a couple minutes of increasingly desperate kisses did he notice that Kris’ hands were pressed to the bed, right outside of his shoulders. He wasn’t moving them even though his hips occasionally juddered and jerked with the effort to keep still. “You can touch,” Sid sighed into his mouth. “You can.”

“Tell me where,” Kris said, and he sounded wrecked, already a little taken apart. “Just tell me where.”

“Everywhere.”

_“Oh,”_ Kris breathed, hands immediately skimming down Sid’s sides. “You - you’re sure?”

There was a little part of his brain that was still tentative, but most of the blood in his body was elsewhere at the moment, and that part was _very_ sure. He pressed his hips up to grind a little against Kris. “What does it feel like?”

“God, I love you,” Kris growled, capturing his mouth in another kiss as his hand slid down, one palm pressed between Sid’s thighs, rubbing.

It felt silly, but just that small touch over fabric was enough to wring a whimper out of Sid, like he was already halfway there. “I’m not going to last, Kris. If you want - “

“Yes,” Kris blurted out, interrupting him, and pushed his way down the bed. He was gentle as he pulled Sid’s drawers down, and between the sudden rush of cool air and Kris’ knuckles skimming his hips, Sid couldn’t help the gasp. Kris stopped immediately. “You’re okay?”

“I’m not going to break, Kris. _Please._ Just...please.”

Kris nodded, and took a moment to just look, take a few deep breaths, like he couldn’t believe his luck. “I love you,” he said again, and then his mouth was sliding down Sid’s cock, warm and wet and _incredible._ He was slow about it, sucking like he wanted to memorize the taste, like he wanted to enjoy it. It was almost too slow, and his beard and moustache tickled a little as he bobbed, and Sid desperately wanted to tangle his hands in Kris’ beautiful hair but he wasn’t sure it would be welcome. Despite all this, he was close after barely any time at all.

“Kris,” he huffed, and he meant it as a warning, in case he wanted to pull off; he knew he should say _something_ else, but no words seemed to be coming out that weren’t his name. _“Kris,”_ he whimpered, louder and more urgent, like he could get his meaning across, but it was too late, his mouth still forming the word as he came.

He blinked up at the ceiling in a stupor, come-dumb until Kris crawled his way back up his body and sealed his mouth to Sid’s again. As he started kissing back he vaguely registered Kris grinding against his leg desperately; Sid could taste the remnants of his own orgasm in Kris' mouth.

Then Kris was whimpering tiny little _oh_ s in Sid’s mouth, brow furrowed and jaw going slack as his hips stuttered to a stop. Sid didn’t realize what it was, not at first, too caught up in his own regret. “I finished in your mouth,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Next time, I’ll - “

Kris shook his head, panting and grinning. “Next time you’ll do that again. From you, I like it. I want it. God, you...Sid, that was everything I’ve wanted for years. You know that, right? You crying out my name in pleasure. I think I could hear that every day, if you’ll let me.”

“Every day, huh.” Sid sighed softly; it was a little overwhelming that not only was everything _okay_ , but Kris wanted to do it again, and again. He shifted a little closer to Kris, and finally registered a wet spot near his hip, remembered Kris’ little whimpers, and… “Wait a minute. Did _you_ finish, too?”

Kris went a little pink. “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean - just, you’re so - it was so - “

“It’s not always going to be that quick, is it?” Sid grinned. “I’ll be very sad if it is.”

A slow smile spread on Kris’ face. “Sid. Are you poking fun at me right now?”

“I’m not the one who just ruined his fresh new drawers,” Sid said, and then both of them were laughing and clinging to each other. “Go, go change would you? It’s your turn to do laundry next anyway.”

“So it is,” Kris said, and shimmied out of his new undergarments in favor of older, baggier - but cleaner - ones. “And look, I meant it. Every day if you want. No pressure to give me anything you’re not ready for.”

“I can’t...Kris, I won’t accept you getting me off without something in return. I’m not ready for sex,” he said, and he knew that was true, even though he couldn’t understand _why_ \- he’d gotten on his knees easily for Shanahan, would do so again in two nights’ time - so what was different here? “But with my mouth. Or my hands…”

“Yeah?” Kris looked thrilled even at that proclamation, and trotted back over with Sid’s morphine kit. “Here. You said at the circus your morphine was wearing off. Maybe you could take some more and then we can just...I dunno, cuddle? Talk?”

“It’s a plan.” Sid’s good mood went a little sour as he opened the case; he was nearly out of morphine, and he wasn’t quite sure how that could be. They had _just_ gone to the general store, it seemed. “Have you been having any of this?”

“Me?” Kris frowned. “Your morphine? No. Is there some missing?”

“Maybe. I’m just not usually out quite this fast.”

“You’ve been taking a lot more with your knee,” Kris said. “We’ll head to the store tomorrow and buy you a double batch, eh? And some more soap for laundry.”

“Okay.” Sid nodded, placated; with the needle, the first sweet waves hit quickly, drowning out the worries. Kris scooped him up in his arms the moment the syringe was set aside, and he luxuriated in the cuddles and the drug-induced pleasure.

It wasn’t his captaincy, and it wasn’t the Navy, but - with the circus and sex and morphine - if this was his life now, Sid supposed it could be worse. He ignored the little nagging worry that this couldn’t last, pushed it down and let Kris’ hands gently smooth down his back, pushing his concerns away.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I'll be posting two small chapters at once. They didn't quite fit together as a single chapter but the first chapter wasn't long enough to make it on its own, so you get a bonus!

_Restaurant._ It was a fancy new term for what Sid had always called an _eating house;_ but here he was with Kris at the Priory House and Restaurant. It was high-brow enough to use the new term, emblazoned proudly on the front of the menu. There were white table cloths. The spoons were _gold._

“So how are you enjoying the res-tau-rant,” Kris asked, digging in enthusiastically into his mutton chop.

“The _rest-raunt_ is great,” Sid said pointedly, smirking. They’d been having a debate over the pronunciation of the word since they arrived, and it didn’t seem like Kris was going to drop it. “Let me try your mutton? You can have some of my duck.”

Kris started to reach his fork over to Sid’s plate and paused, tilted his head quizzically and glanced around the room. It was all men in suits in this particular room, with the women relegated to their own dining area behind a lace curtain; there were a lot of business negotiations being conducted around them, Sid could tell. Nobody else was eating off each other’s plates, but… “Oh, just take it,” Sid murmured. “What are they going to do, kick us out? We have money. We have _money.”_

Kris shrugged, smiling, and speared a piece of duck. Sid did the same with Kris’ food; it was delicious, but so was his.

Their waiter glided over with an effortless smile. “May I get you a new pour, gentleman?”

“Sure, let’s try that new imperial pale sherry this time,” Sid said, and smiled at Kris’ arched eyebrow.

“Trying to get me drunk on expensive wine?”

“Maybe. What happens if I do?”

Kris dropped his gaze back to his plate, grinning. “Oh, you know you don’t have to get me drunk for anything, Sid.”

Sid considered his next words carefully, the reappearance of the waiter with their new drinks allowing him to stay silent. As much as he wanted to flirt with Kris throughout dinner, then drag him home and kiss him senseless, there was ugly business to be had first. He needed to come up with some excuse for why he would occasionally be leaving in the evenings, and the _‘visiting old friends’_ wouldn’t work forever. “So I’m, uh...taking a job,” Sid said slowly, once the waiter had left. “Sort of like the waiter we have tonight. Except at private dinner parties.”

“Like a...like a butler? You won’t have to live anywhere else, will you?”

“Oh no, no no,” Sid rushed out. “It’s like...when rich households have big gatherings and dinner parties, sometimes they temporarily require more help than they have. It doesn’t make sense employing fifty people when you only need that many for big parties, right? So one night I could be at Shadyside helping in the kitchen, another night I could be in Fox Chapel tending to guest carriages. And the work is, uh, sporadic, you know?”

Kris poked at his food, looking thoughtful. “That’s the position you want to do, huh?”

“Well, I - “ Sid felt his cheeks pinken a little. “You know what I _want_ to do. But this is. Well, it’s fine. And I choose when I take the work. The backpay won’t last forever, but between this job and the pension and the backpay, I think we’ll be alright. I like these little, uh...courtship outings.” Sid wasn’t sure what to call them.

“Absolutely, me too. So when do you start?”

“I have my first job tomorrow evening, actually.”

Kris clicked his tongue with a smirk. “I guess we’ll have to make the most out of tonight then, won’t we?”

~~~~~

Sid felt terrible about lying to Kris over dinner, and the guilt only got stronger as the next evening approached. “Don’t look so nervous,” Kris said, kissing his cheek and then his mouth as Sid fretted with his suit. “You’ll do great. You’re great at anything you put your mind to. Now go on, you’ll be late. It won’t do to be late to your first day on the job, would it?”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sid said, truthfully, but Kris just laughed and kissed him again and ushered him out the door with a fond wave.

Even in his best outfit, Sid felt underdressed when the carriage pulled up to the address listed. Apparently the Shanahans were staying at The Carnegie House, Pittsburgh's first - and thus far, only - luxury hotel. Far from the boarding houses and inns Sid had stayed at before, with its shared rooms and rowdy attached taverns, here you couldn't even see the stables from the street. The property was so big they were set away from the road, unseen, instead of having to hitch your horse to a post right outside the door. Sid had heard that this place even had _indoor plumbing_ and a mechanical bell call system for porters and servants. And their hot baths were the talk of the town; but not the normal kind, where water was heated and added to the tub. No, apparently the tubs had little gas furnaces to heat the water. Sid had never even taken a regular hot bath, much less some fancy new gas-powdered hot bath. He wondered if maybe he'd at least get to see the strange tubs.

The doorman could tell that Sid was out of place just by his mannerisms and his style of dress, and he looked unamused as Sid approached. But the letter had come with a small notice to the hotel employees to bring him to the correct room, and after checking the seal and signature they escorted him up a flight of stairs and down a hallway without a fuss.

"Sidney!" Brendan answered the door and looked delighted at his arrival, offering a tip to the porter and ushering him inside. "We weren't sure if you would come, but we're quite pleased that you did."

Sid blinked wide-eyed at Brendan's wife, Emma, who was spread out on the bed. She was wearing a very fashionable, expensive corset and risque little pantalettes with frilly waves around the calves, and she winked and waved at him.

"Such a sexy little thing, isn't she," Brendan asked, coming in from behind and splaying his palms flat along Sid's chest. He pushed one hand down to Sid's belly, just above his crotch, and the other up to his shoulder, breathing hot against Sid's neck from behind, nuzzling the hairline.

"Uh huh," Sid replied, trembling a bit at the touch.

"What do you want to do to her?"

_Nothing,_ Sid thought, but out loud: "Anything you'll let me, sir."

Emma giggled, and Brendan bit the back of his neck, sucking hard.

The couple knew exactly what they wanted, and weren't afraid to ask, and tangled together for what felt to Sid like hours. He lost track of time after his second orgasm, where Sid was on his back, getting fucked by Brendan while Emma rode him. They went until Sid physically didn't think he could get hard again, and then collapsed in a sweaty pile on the bed.

Sid waited until his breathing was mostly back to normal before sitting up. "If I could just get a washcloth and my payment, I'll wipe off and head out, then."

"Wait." Brendan gently tugged him back down next to him. "We were wondering if you reconsidered our offer."

"Offer?"

Emma and Brandon shared a quick look. "I'd imagine you're probably doing this to pay off a debt. Maybe you have a sick family member. Or got too deep in the gambling parlors. Name your price, and we'll draw up a contract and pay it off."

Sid drew back, staring at Shanahan. "And then what? I'd be your _slave?"_

"Not slave," Emma corrected. "It's debt bondage."

"How is that any different from slavery?"

Brendan smiled. "Well, you have significantly more rights, and it’s not forever. It has an end date, depending on how much money we pay off. Less money, less time. More money, more time. We'd take care of you..." Suddenly, Brendan was on top of him, gently kissing his neck. "And you'd take care of us."

"We'd take such good care of you, Sidney," Emma purred, grazing her nails across Sid's upper thigh. He felt paralyzed, unable to move by the heavy weight on top of him.

"You've obviously had a rough life," Brendan had moved up right under his jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there, moving to his ear and licking at the lobe. "So many scars, Sidney. With us, you'll have whatever you want. You'll stay in places like this when we're on the road, and when we're home, our house slaves will wait on you hand and foot. You won't have to lift a finger to do any menial work. And didn't you have fun, tonight? How many times did you come?" Brendan went in for a kiss, but Sid turned his head. "What's wrong?"

"I - I can't. No, please."

"Why not?"

"I'm...in love. With someone." Admitting it out loud nearly took his breath away; he _was_ in love with Kris. The idea of going back with the Shanahans, to be their sex slave, temporary or not, scared the living daylights out of him, but he realized a major component of that fear was never seeing Kris again. Never getting to see him laugh at a joke, eyes crinkling in amusement, never again see the solemn, pouty scowl on his face as he read an interesting newspaper article, never getting to wake up in the morning and see Kris next to him, hair tousled along his forehead, asleep.

"Well, that's unfortunate." Brendan grabbed his chin, kept it steady for a hard, sloppy kiss. "He or she is very lucky. But love isn't a guarantee. So we'll make sure to give you our address, in case you have a falling out. Or change your mind." Sid nodded, starting to climb off the bed once more, but again Brendan gently snagged him before he could. "Oh, Sidney, before you go..."

The plushest bedspread Sid had ever been on muffled his whimpers as Brendan spanked him over his knee, harder than at the party, over and over, the slaps echoing through the room. He let them go on far longer than he normally would have; Sid felt like he needed to be punished. "No more," he finally cried. "Please, no more."

"Mmhm." Brendan stopped at his request, drawing light, ticklish fingertips across his bottom instead. He was panting, sounding worked up, and Sid could feel Brendan pressing hard against his thigh. "You flush so fucking beautifully, Sidney. I could spank you every night to hear those sweet whimpers and see your pretty pink ass. I do hope you'll reconsider. Just send a post if you do, eh? And we’ll send for you in the best carriage you’ve ever seen.”

"Can I go now," Sid asked, shakily, and Brendan acquiesced, allowing him to get dressed again. His skin burned hot against the fabric of his suit, and as he closed the door to their room, his fee for the evening rolled thick in his pocket, he had a quick view of Brendan starting to ravage his wife anew.

It was an uncomfortable ride back to his flat, his battered bottom making it hard to sit still for long. But even if he hadn’t been spanked, he’d have found it difficult to not fidget. He’d said it out loud - albeit to strangers - and admitted it to himself; he loved Kris. And Kris had a right to know, and would be overjoyed at it. Still, a thread of guilt ran through his happiness. Sometimes he could still remember in vivid detail the tender strength of Boone’s embrace, or the way he smelled, or his joyous laugh. Sid had _survived,_ and Boone had not, and yet he was already moving on. It seemed almost like a betrayal.

Kris looked happily tipsy when Sid arrived home. “Sid, how was - “ He never got to finish; Sid crossed the room in three large steps and yanked Kris close, giving him a hard kiss. Kris was chuckling as he pulled away. “What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

“I love you,” Sid said, watching Kris’ face for his reaction. Kris’ smirk slid off, and there was a wide-eyed stare before his smile came roaring back, an open-mouthed exuberance.

“You do? I mean you, you don’t have to say it if you’re not ready for - “

“Kris, _I love you,”_ he said, and kissed him again. Kris clung to him like he was drowning and Sid was his lifeboat, hands roaming as if he had to convince himself that Sid was real. Sid bit back a hiss as they brushed his ass, but Kris didn’t seem to notice.

Kris’ lips were pink and full when they finally pulled apart, and he looked kissed-up and dazed. “I don’t want to question good fortune,” he said, “But what brought this on so sudden?”

“Just...tonight, at work? I can’t say I had a great time, but then I remembered who I was doing it for, who I was coming home to. And it made it all okay, and it really hit me that I _do_ love you.” Sid slid his hands down Kris’ shirt, petting down the wrinkles. “Sometimes - a _lot_ of times - it still feels overwhelming. So be patient with me.”

“Always,” Kris said, and went for another kiss, but Sid gently deflected.

“Wait, wait. I need to get out of this suit, and take some morphine, and then...well, it’s been a long night. Maybe we can just cuddle?” If Kris saw his ass, guaranteed still blazing red, it might destroy everything. Kris assented with a goofy grin, allowing Sid to step back out of his embrace.

Sid carefully shoved the money, way too much for a simple serving job, into his knapsack and deposited the Shanahan’s address alongside it; he wasn’t sure why he kept the thing, but now he had to hide it from Kris. He also carefully removed his suit, making sure his undergarments didn’t ruck down and expose his skin. Kris ultimately paid no attention, looking dazed on the bed, grinning wildly up towards the heavens.

After a quick shot of morphine, Sid crawled into bed next to Kris, suddenly desperate for contact with someone who didn’t want to pay to fuck him. “Hey,” Kris soothed, wrapped his arms around Sid obligingly. “I love you, eh?”

“Love you too,” Sid said, and Kris’ big smile was enough to at least make him temporarily forget his earlier activities.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains violent non-con, which I'd imagine you're probably okay with if you've made it this far, but be aware if you're at work or some other place as it may be a tough read.

The sun was setting, casting everything in brilliant golds and oranges, glinting off the ocean. These were his favorite evenings as a captain, and he felt a pang of regret, but knocked his shoulder into Kris as they strolled down the pier. At least he still had one thing from his old life.

“You’re going to look dashing in a winter coat,” Kris said suddenly, licking the sugar off his fingers from a molasses candy.

Sid laughed. “Why are we talking about coats? It’s barely even fall!”

“Harvest was early this year, I hear. Snow will be coming sooner than you think.” Kris paused, sneaking a glance around them, before offering a small smirk. “I can pelt you with snowballs, and then bring you inside to warm you up.”

 _“Please_ stop talking about winter. No need to rush it.”

“I know. I just think about the fact that it will be our first new year together. A fresh start, of sorts. It seems like it means something, right? I know this isn’t exactly what either of us wanted, but I’m happy.” Kris thumped his hand twice over his heart; it had become their shorthand way of saying _I love you_ when they were in public and unable to say it out loud.

Sid echoed the gesture and kept his eyes on Kris. The setting sun was turning his skin golden, brightening his dark hair. He was beautiful, and Sid knew how lucky he was. And he wasn’t _un_ happy, but he when he answered, “Me too,” he wasn’t quite sure whether he was telling the truth.

~~~~~

Even the brisk fall day was not enough to fend off the terrible warm sweating that suddenly plagued Sid.

Kris had gotten a position as a courier - Sid didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue with Kris’ motivation, since he himself had an allegedly respectable job - and at least it was only three days a week. During one of his deliveries, Kris had seen an amazing orchard, rows upon rows of trees turning a brilliant fiery orange and gold, and he insisted that Sid should see it. So the next day he was off, they had a lovely walk to the orchard together, eating apples, and the view itself was breathtaking.

But it was a longer walk than Sid expected, and he was suddenly shaky, nauseous and sweating. “You’re ill,” Kris exclaimed, horrified. “We have to get you to a physician.”

“Just home,” Sid murmured, resisting the urge to go down on his knee. “Just call a carriage, please.”

It was a strange thing that Sid had started noticing, these odd trembles, nausea, and terrible anxiety. The symptoms were always cured with a new shot of morphine. But it didn’t make sense; morphine was not supposed to be _addictive._ Yet here he was, suffering like a drunkard for lack of rum.

Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Maybe he did need to see a physician.

Kris got him back home in a carriage, clucking and fussing over him the whole time, but just as he suspected, his symptoms were quickly eased with another shot of morphine. “Promise me you’ll get checked, Sid,” he asked, dabbing the sweat from his brow with a wet cloth. “Please.”

“I promise, Kris,” he said, and was rewarded with a genuine smile and a soft kiss.

~~~~~

Dinner and drinks had seemed a fitting reward for a clean bill from the physician. “I told you there was nothing wrong with me,” Sid said, and Kris grinned and ordered another whiskey to toast to both their health.

The space had been rented out by an invite-only cotillion ball in the evening, so they couldn’t stick around and get drunk. As they were pulling on coats, the band struck up, and Sid glanced back to see couples starting to move and dance together.

“Sid?” Kris asked, nudging him, and he realized he’d been staring, dreaming of him and Kris out there, hand in hand with nobody batting an eye. But that was never to be.

They hurried home before the snow started anew, and Sid felt a warm arm around his waist as he shucked his dress shirt. “May I have this dance?” Kris asked in his ear, smiling.

“With what music?” Sid laughed, but turned in his arms. Both of them tried to take the men’s position, fumbling and laughing for a moment, before Sid acquiesced with a playful sigh and allowed Kris to lead.

Kris made a soft _hmm,_ pressing his forehead to Sid’s. “I think I recognize the tune they were playing,” he said, and started to hum the song as they rocked together, dancing for no audience but themselves.

~~~~~

Winter coats were expensive, as it turned out, especially when you needed two. But there was no sex this time, just a few blowjobs. Sid could do that.

They took _forever,_ old men struggling to get it up and finish, and his jaw was sore by the end of it. To make matters worse, the last man wanted to come on his face, and put it straight in his eye as his friends laughed and jeered.

“Looks good on you,” the man said with a mean smirk, and Sid grit his teeth and wiped his face and collected his money, and made excuses when Kris asked about his red eye that evening.

~~~~~

They were just tiny trees, but Kris was _charmed._

“You do what now?” Sid asked, bewildered, at all the miniature firs sitting just below shoulder-height in a little roadside market. “Put it in the house? Why?”

“It’s a Christmas fir,” Kris said, pinging his thumb off the needles of the closest tree. “Growing up, we had a little bush in a tub that we would set on a table and decorate. Now the fashion is these trees. And you put these garlands and ornaments on them and they’re delightful.”

“But what’s the purpose?”

“It’s a _decoration,”_ Kris said slowly, as if speaking to someone slow, looking a little exasperated. “It’s just meant to look pretty! We should get one.”

Sid bit back a sigh. He couldn’t much see the point, but it seemed to make Kris happy, and that was good enough for him. “Go crazy with it then,” he said, and Kris grinned and thumped his chest twice, _I love you,_ and then he was off to haggle with the vendor. Sid stayed close; Kris tended to move from _haggling_ to _arguing_ if he wasn’t getting his way. It was tempting to let him go sometimes - he was strangely beautiful when he was riled up, eyes blazing in anger, flipping his hair that he had allowed to grow out a bit - but if Sid had to listen to him argue about a _tree,_ he thought he might die of embarrassment.

Kris seemed too thrilled to argue much, and before long they were dragging home their very own Christmas tree, with Kris proclaiming all the different holiday ornaments they could create at home. “Now I have to do work for this thing?” Sid grumbled playfully. “You never said that.”

“We’re going to create such beautiful ornaments,” Kris winked, and well - maybe it wouldn’t be all bad, Sid thought.

~~~~~

The churches in the city were magnificent edifices of worship, built to suit mass crowds, and they were packed to the rafters on Christmas. Kris professed he wasn’t much for organized religion, but he’d go if Sid wanted.

Sid did want, which is how he found himself in the back row of the pews, Kris pressed close to his side.

Truth be told, it probably was a poor idea. There were too many people, making the church a little stifling; Sid was glad he’d taken a bit of morphine before coming, to help calm him down. He let the priest’s words wash over him, about salvation and Jesus and the miracle birth and heaven.

 _Heaven._ Was Boone up there waiting for him? Was Ryan? Had dying at sea prevented them from getting in? It had been a terrible death, antithesis to Christianity. If they did get in, could they see him down here on Earth, alive without them? Sid had always heard that people in heaven had no reason to watch those still living, but it seemed a very Boone thing to do, if he was able. Would he approve of Kris?

He pressed his clasped hands to his face, trying to stop the welling tears. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed silently, although he didn’t quite know what he was apologizing for. He was sorry that he was still alive, while they were not; sorry that he’d seemed to have moved on so quickly, another man in his bed; sorry that they suffered a fate they never deserved. He was so _sorry._

“Sid,” came the whisper in his ear, and Kris was staring at him, brown eyes full of concern.

Sid waved him off. They were stuck in this pew until the end of service, and quite frankly he wasn’t sure he even wanted to tell Kris why he was so upset. Kris pressed closer, slipped his hand on the small of Sid’s back, a comforting warmth while the priest droned on. At the end, he let Kris navigate them through the crowds back to their flat, and collapsed in his arms, crying openly in front of their little tree. He couldn’t tell Kris why, but Kris didn’t seem to care, soothing him all the same until he pulled him down to the bed, falling asleep in his arms.

~~~~~

“What the hell is that noise?”

Sid glanced up from his book, tucked under the covers next to Kris; he’d heard it too, some kind of faint singing and hollering. It sounded like it was coming from outside, but that couldn’t be right. It was _cold_ outside. There was a reason he and Kris were bundled under the covers together, sharing body heat.

“There it is again,” Kris said, and shot out of bed to the window while Sid groaned and pulled the covers closer.

“What do you see?”

“Men in...costumes? Come look.” 

Sid groaned, loath to leave the warm bed, but set his book aside and trudged over. Indeed, it was a large group of drunk looking men in festive costumes, singing and dancing down the block.

Kris nudged open the window and ignored Sid’s yelp at the cold blast of air that invaded the flat. “Hey!” he yelled, causing a few of the men to turn and look. “Who are you?”

“Mummers,” they called back. “We’ll give you a performance for food or money!”

“We don’t have any food or money,” Sid told them, which wasn’t exactly true, but he certainly had nothing he wanted to give to them.

“Well then fuck off!” One of the men shouted, giving them a rude gesture.

Kris and Sid looked at each other in disbelief; the second the window was closed, they collapsed into helpless laughter until Sid’s fingers went numb with the chill. He dove back under the covers and Kris followed, pinning Sid to the bed. “I’ll give _you_ a performance for food or money,” he teased.

Sid scoffed playfully. “I got nothin’,” he responded.

“Okay,” Kris said, tightening his grip on Sid’s shoulders, eyes going dark. “How about free?”

“Mmm, I dunno. Might need convincing,” Sid said as he tangled his feet with Kris’ and surged up to meet the kiss.

~~~~~

“Are you a physician's assistant, sir?”

“Excuse me?” Sid blinked in surprise, setting his purchases down next to the store merchant. “What now?”

“A physician’s assistant.” The merchant tapped the boxes of morphine Sid had set aside for purchase. “You purchase quite a number of these when you come in. We can set you up on a wholesale subscription program if you’d like. It requires minimum purchase per month, but we’ll deliver straight to your office.”

“Oh, uh.” Sid didn’t know what the hell to say to that. How could this merchant think he was purchasing enough morphine that he might be in the medical field? It was ridiculous. He realized the man was still waiting for him to respond, so he went with, “I’ll have to check with the doctor.”

“Please do,” the merchant said with a smile, ringing up his purchases and helping load them into Sid’s knapsack.

He escaped out the door as soon as he could, with his food items and morphine and an extra soap safely stored away in his sack. His fingers trembled as he shoved them into his gloves, growing more indignant and angry the longer he thought about it. The merchant was an _idiot_ , and now had put him in an awkward spot. Well, that was fine. There was another general store almost as close, in the opposite direction of his flat. He’d simply start going there instead. He never needed to see that man again.

~~~~~

The theater was a mystical sort of place to Sid when he was growing up. He’d always wanted to go, but had always lacked the means - either money or time off - to do so. So finding himself at the touted production of _Metamora_ , sitting in a box overlooking the stage, right next to Kris, was a particularly proud moment. He wasn’t sure there was anywhere else he’d rather be.

The theater was dark, all the lights illuminating the stage, and Sid wanted to hold Kris’ hand more than anything. _Screw it,_ he finally decided. It was dark, there was nobody sitting behind them, who was to see? Both of them were wearing formal white gloves with the rest of the high class patrons in the expensive seats; Sid yanked off his glove and discreetly elbowed Kris in the side. It took Kris a moment, but he grinned, pulling off his glove as well. Sid hooked his fingers around Kris’ own bare hand as their arms dangled between their seats, hidden from view, and sat back to enjoy the production.

The play itself was captivating. “We have to do this again,” Sid told Kris, eyes alight, as they rose and clapped for the performers at the end.

“Yes!” Kris beamed, seemingly just as taken with the production as he was. They talked excitedly about it the whole way home - the costumes, the action scenes, the _ending_ \- taking the walk instead of a carriage and enjoying the first real warm day of spring. It had been a long winter.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Kris said between kisses, once they were safely home and half-undressed on the bed.

“Do what?” Sid asked, kissing up Kris’ neck, distracted.

“Mmm.” Kris tossed his head back, offering more access to the spot. “Your budget skills. Backpay, a pension, two part time jobs. I wouldn’t think it would be enough, but here you are spoiling me. You should be an accountant, you know that? You have a real way with numbers.”

Sid’s mouth froze on Kris’ skin; he had long since taken over all the money for the household. Kris gave him the earnings from his courier job and he made all the purchases. He didn’t particularly enjoy it, but it was a necessity. How else could he explain having so much money?

“Sid?” Kris asked, leaning down to nuzzle at him. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”

Sid cleared his throat. “Just...just talking about _budgets_ while I’m trying to get you naked and blow you.” He felt Kris sag a little at the last part. They still hadn’t had sex yet, not _real_ sex. Plenty of hands and mouths, but nothing penetrative. Kris never pushed, but he was eager for it, Sid could tell. Sid _wanted_ to be ready to have sex, wanted to welcome it with open arms, he just wasn’t there yet and he still didn’t know why.

Kris recovered quickly, though, hands pressing between Sid’s thighs with a growl. “Not if I blow you first,” he said, kissing the protest off Sid’s lips.

~~~~~

Sid had almost refused the job when Mary had said it was another visiting Naval delegation. He remembered Detroit, the wild orgy that had left him exhausted and mentally spent, and wanted no part of a repeat. Unfortunately, the fee was too good and he was running low on funds. Sid took a shot of morphine before he left the flat - just to get him through the night - and showed up on time to the party with a fake smile. He was already sweating, uncommonly warm for springtime.

This group was from Jersey, a country with a long animosity and rivalry towards Pittsburgh. Sid didn’t recognize anyone, and didn’t expect to, so at least that was a positive. And unlike Detroit’s wild and exhibitionist group, the officers and wives from Jersey seemed much more prim and proper. Instead of being on full display, Sid was placed in a bedroom, and the party goers came to him for his services. Everything was done behind closed doors, in private. Nobody even yelled very loudly during sex.

Sid lounged on the bedspread, idly waiting for the next person when the door slammed open. An intimidating looking man walked in, wearing full military regalia, his gaze intense and stony. Sid sat up immediately. He had a feeling this man demanded respect at all times.

"Whore or slave?" The man asked, shutting the door.

"Excuse me?"

He looked irritated at having to clarify. "Are you a slave, or a whore? Does someone own you?"

Sid tipped his chin up. "I'm a free man,” he said, sounding prouder than he felt.

"You're a whore, then. Good. Don't need to worry about damaging property."

Sid frowned, not quite liking the implication of his words. "I'm Sidney," he introduced, gently, like he was trying to soothe a tiger. Perhaps introducing himself would allow this man to see him as more of a person, and not a thing to be used.

"Commodore Scott Stevens. But you'll call me sir tonight, or master. Won't you?" Sid felt his mouth twitch, repressing a snarl.

"Yes, sir."

"Come here. On your knees, in front of me." Sid complied, and Scott grabbed his chin, manhandling it. "Open your fucking mouth. Let me see it."

Scott was apparently satisfied with what he saw, because he unbuttoned his pants for Sid to take care of him. "No teeth," he warned, jamming himself in Sid's mouth, choking him. Scott had a rough fistful of Sid’s hair as he snapped his hips forward, fucking himself down Sid's throat. Sid took it for a long minute before choking, pawing at Scott's stomach to let him go. He did, and as Sid took a coughing breath, Stevens slapped him hard across the cheek. It took his breath away again, both from the pain and the shock of it.

"You can't do that," he spluttered, cradling his jaw.

"But I can," Scott replied, hauling him to his feet and shoving him over towards the bed. Sid landed roughly on his stomach, nearly slipping off again before Stevens held him firmly to the sheets. He grabbed Sid's arms and hooked them behind his back with one big hand, like he was capturing Sid as a prisoner. Fear burst within Sid's chest, and he started to squirm, reminded too much of old terrors in the brothel.

"Don't struggle," Scott growled. "Why the fuck are you struggling? You're here for my pleasure, whore. Stop it."

Sid panted into the mattress, breaths elevated with fear, while Scott spit down between Sid's legs, wiped the spit over his entrance, thumb catching along the rim. He spit a few more times, dipping a too-dry set of fingertips inside Sid for a moment. Then, suddenly, Scott's cock was pressed against Sid, whose panic went through the roof. He’d applied lubricant to himself earlier, but it had been at the start of the party, and based on how his fingertips felt, he needed more. "Wait, sir - please, let me - a little more oil - “

"I checked. You’re fine," Scott huffed, and thrust inside.

It hurt, and Sid was suddenly thrown back into the brothel. He could practically feel the ropes cutting into his wrists, the scratchy mattress against his cheek, the foul smell of _pirate_ on top of him, the way the patrons grunted and panted on top of him as they fucked him. The knowledge that he had no way out. Prisoner. _Slave._

Sid howled then, in pain, in hysteria, and abruptly Scott pulled out, spun Sid around, and punched him hard in the mouth. He followed it with a second punch, and Sid's world darkened, one eye swollen shut nearly immediately. Blood trickled down his chin from a cut lip, tickling through the stubble on his jaw. "Shut the fuck up, you fucking wagtail," Scott snarled, shoving Sid on the bed again, on his back this time. He yanked Sid's legs open and thrust back inside; Sid couldn't contain a strangled whimper of pain.

He concentrated on his breathing while it happened, anything to distract himself, _inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale,_ but even so he could hear his breaths shaking and heaving, a groan of pain always threatening under the surface. He balled his fists into the sheets and squeezed his good eye shut, praying for it to be over soon, reminding himself again and again that he was not in the brothel, he was a _free man,_ tonight he would go home to Kris and forget all about this.

It didn't take too long for Stevens to finish, and Sid exhaled a sigh of relief when he was suddenly empty. It felt sticky, between his legs; the bastard had come inside him, to add insult to injury. Sid kept his eyes closed, body tensed, expecting something else to happen to him for a long, excruciating minute. But when he opened his eyes next, the room was empty, the door half-open.

The next person to enter, a stocky older woman, screamed at the top of her lungs when she saw Sid, curled on the bed, bloody and broken.

Before he knew it, he'd been washed, dressed, cleaned up and was out on the streets in a carriage cab, with his payment and some extra in his pocket, "for the trouble".

How was he going to explain this to Kris?

The cab dropped him off, already paid for, and he stumbled up his stairs, slipping once, his depth perception ruined. He was slightly out of breath by the time he made it up the stairs to their room.

"Jesus, you sounded like one of those circus elephants - " Kris started, his nose in a book, before he caught sight of Sid's face. The book fell to the floor, took a short bounce and crumpled the pages. "Oh, _fuck._ Sid, what - "

"Mugging," he mumbled, and Kris was by his side immediately, guiding him to the bed.

"Sit down," he urged, and then he was running out of the room, downstairs to the wash basin, returning with a cool wet rag, which he pressed to Sid's face. "Jesus, Sid, you got worked over. You said someone mugged you?"

"Tw - uh, three guys," he said, trying to keep the rag on both his eye and cut lip at the same time.

"Let me - shhh, this will sting - " Kris gently stroked his temple, his cheek, touched his nose, and Sid hissed in pain. "Well, thank God, nothing seems broken. You got lucky. You're not going to be very handsome for the next month or two, but lucky I don't like you for your looks, eh?" Kris smiled, thinly, and Sid knew he was trying to cheer him up.

"Couldn't get much worse, at least."

"Oh, shut up." Kris cocked his head. "At least you didn't get blood on your suit. Not sure how you managed that, but a small plus, at least."

"Yeah." Sid didn't quite know how to explain that away, so instead, he asked, "Can you get me the morphine?"

Kris retrieved it for him, and Sid put together the needle, slid the clear liquid into the syringe. By now he was adept at finding a vein, and the sweet happiness bubbled through him almost immediately, the pain dulling to where he simply didn't care about it anymore. But he was exhausted, and the morphine was helping drag him down further.

"I'll get your suit off," Kris soothed, as if he could tell that Sid was teetering on the edge of consciousness. "Just sleep, Sid. Let me take care of you."

"Thanks," he said, pausing only to carefully disassemble his prized needle and set it aside before collapsing back on the bed. He was out in a minute.


	49. Chapter 49

When Sid woke up next, the sky was bleak, dark grey, in that transition state between night and morning. He was in his nightshirt now, and he gently reached behind him, but Kris' side of the bed was cold.

Rolling over, he saw the oil lamp, flickering bright. An open book sat in Kris' lap and he was perched on their new chair, just purchased last month with money Sid had received from his last job. "Sid," Kris greeted, but his tone was odd, and he didn't smile. For the hour, he didn't look sleepy at all.

"Kris." He gingerly touched his face, felt the cut on his lip, wincing. "What are you still doing up? You didn't have to watch over me. I’m fine, really.”

"Couldn't sleep." Kris pursed his lips, setting the book aside and holding up a pouch. Sid immediately recognized it as his fee for the evening, and his heart jumped to his throat. "I had a lot to think about. See, when I undressed you, pulled your suit off to get your nightclothes on, this fell out of your pocket. And I thought how odd it was, that you had been mugged and yet still had your evening wages in your pocket. Then I looked inside, Sid. Do you know how much money is in here?” Kris let the pouch drop from his hand, where it landed heavily on the floor, coins jingling loudly amidst the bills.

“It’s not _that_ much,” Sid said weakly, not even convinced of it himself.

“Oh no, it is. It’s a _lot_ of money, Sid. Not wages for a...waiter, or an extra hired hand, or whatever you told me that you were. And definitely not Navy back pay.”

“I had some of our savings in there, Kris,” Sid lied, because he didn’t know what else to do. “I don’t know why it wasn’t taken. Thank God, I suppose.”

Kris’ mouth went thin, fixing Sid with a withering look that he hadn’t seen since they were on the seas together, staring down a pirate ship. “The lies come easy now, I see,” he said, and he snatched up his book again, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. It was an envelope, which he tossed down on the bed in front of Sid.

From his good eye he could see the red seal, the winged wheel pressed there. It was Shanahan’s solicitation.

Sid said nothing, just stared in silence, and this seemed to bother Kris as he swallowed thickly, looking sick. "You care to tell me what this is, Sid? I found this in your knapsack, and I’m not sorry I went looking, either. This is a letter talking about how someone enjoyed you for an evening, and they'd love to do it again, and I remember this night, Sid, you left and said you had paperwork to fill out. But you weren't doing that, were you?"

"No," Sid said, voice gravel, just above a whisper.

"No. No, that wasn’t it at all." Kris wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, eyes watery. "I should have fucking known. Backpay? From the fucking Navy? How stupid was I?”

“I can explain,” Sid told him, lamely, and the fierce look was back in Kris’ eyes, even as they still brimmed with tears.

“No more lies,” he said. “Tell me the truth, Sid. I’m owed that, I think. _Tell me._ If I hear even a hint of lie, even the vaguest mistruth, I’ll be out that door in a flash. Tell me the truth, no matter how painful, and I’ll stay. You have my word.”

Kris must already know; the Shanahans’ letter was explicit. But he apparently wanted Sid to _say it_. “It’s what you are surely thinking,” he said. “I had a job. And it was serving people. But not serving food, or helping in the kitchen or the stables.”

“Prostitution,” Kris said, flatly.

Sid bunched the blankets around him, staring down at his lap. “Not...not a common street whore. Not like that, Kris. Private parties, higher class men and women that wanted, um. Entertainment. And were willing to pay a high price for it.”

There was a strangled huff, and Sid looked up to see Kris face in his hands, palm covering his eyes. “I’m an idiot,” he groaned. “A clod, a moron. Blinded by love. All those nice things, those dinners, the theatre, the - “ Kris cut off with a gasp, eyes wide as he stared at Sid. “You didn’t...this was surely not for my benefit, was it?”

“I didn’t want you to leave,” Sid whispered.

“Leave? Leave?!” Kris snatched up the letter, shook it. “All I wanted, all I _ever_ wanted, was you! Just you! It didn’t matter if we were in a restaurant eating the finest lamb or at home scrounging for the cheapest salt beef, as long as we were together! And you had me, you had _everything_ of me, and yet here, in this letter, this strange man talking about the spot that makes you scream. Sid, I don’t even know that spot! Do you know how it felt, to read this?”

“No,” Sid said, truthfully, because he was never the one who had to deal with another man’s hands all over his lovers. But Boone had had to, and now Kris was dealing with it as well. “I’m so sorry, Kris. God, I’m so _sorry.”_ He hiccuped once, twice, and then he was sobbing. Despite what Kris said, Sid was sure that now he knew the truth, he would leave. Who could blame him for that?

To Sid’s shock, there were steady arms wrapping around his shoulders; Kris had slipped into bed next to him and was hugging him, _holding_ him, as if he deserved to be comforted.

“Don’t do this if you’re going to leave me,” he cried. “If you’re going to leave, just go.”

“You told me the truth,” Kris murmured. “So I stay.” He skimmed his hand down Sid’s cheek, the barest touch against the bruising skin. “How did this happen?”

“I, uh. I told a man no, tonight, and he didn’t much like it.”

“Never again,” Kris hissed. “You’re done with that life. From now on. And if it means no more fancy nights out, so be it, we don’t need them. If you get a job, a _real_ job, we’ll have enough to live, won’t we? Take care of our needs, basic as they might be?”

Sid made a fretful little sigh; truthfully, he wasn’t sure. Somehow, the morphine expenses had become higher and higher, the money sifting like sand through a hand which had once been cupped tight and was now spreading its fingers slowly. He thought very hard about lying, telling Kris that everything was under control, and perhaps it would be. Maybe Sid could get a real job somewhere and they’d eke out a living. But he instinctively knew their relationship now was tenuous, hanging by a string, and maybe it was time to come clean with everything.

“I’m not sure,” Sid said. “The morphine, it’s...it’s a lot of money, Kris. My entire pension each month.”

“What?” Kris yelped, shocked, pulling back to stare at Sid. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” he said, helplessly. “I know it’s a lot. I - I’ll cut down, I’ll have to.”

“Just _quit,_ Sid. Just quit, and I’ll quit booze, too. That’ll save us a fair bit of money. Maybe we could even start a little savings, get out of this tiny flat, maybe buy a house somewhere.”

 _Quitting_ wasn’t an option, and Sid felt a flash of anger at even the suggestion. “You want to start saving and buy a house, you’ll send me back out to whore. I can gut fish for ten hours, or get fucked for two and get paid five times as much. I’ve been fucked for free plenty, you know that, right?”

Kris looked indignant, opened his mouth to retort...then snapped it shut, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” Kris jumped off the bed, and yanked Sid’s morphine kit off the dresser.

“Hey!” Sid protested, trying to untangle his blankets from his feet to get to his kit. “That’s mine! Don’t fucking touch it!”

“Ah, so it is the morphine, eh? Stop, stop, I won’t do anything with it.” The silent _yet_ was heavily implied, but Sid stilled. It wasn’t just his face that hurt, now; his entire body thrummed with pain, his knee especially bad from being tossed around.

“I’m in _pain_ , Kris,” Sid said, gesturing to his face. “Look at me. Look!”

“So then, after you’re healed, you’d be willing to quit?”

Sid stopped to really consider life without morphine. Morphine made him feel happy; it gave him the peace he so desperately longed for. On morphine, it was like he’d never toppled into the seas, never been sold. At least for a little while. Why should he quit? “I’ll cut back,” he said firmly. “But quit? Why should I? Morphine makes me feel normal, Kris.”

Kris stared at the kit in his hands, frowning. “Normal?”

“Normal. Not some sort of...sick coward that couldn’t find a proper way to get out of his circumstances by having the good grace to die. You can’t know what it was like in that brothel. Chained to a bed, my hands tied in front of me, slowly going mad. My life was nothing but my bed, a few feet around it, and a parade of strange men. I prayed for death, but I got Boone instead.” Sid was clenching and unclenching his fists now, unable to stop, years of pain bubbling up fresh. “I love - I _loved_ Boone, but even he couldn’t save me. I was a whore in that brothel where he found me, and when he rescued me from there I was still a whore. And it was better, yes, but there’s something so devastating about a man like Foligno going from a peer, a worthy enemy, to your _owner.”_

“Sid,” Kris said, helplessly.

“I’m not done,” he said. “I had to submit to everyone on that ship, from captain to swabber. I had to sexually serve the man that captured and sold me. Then on top of everything, Boone goes and dies in my arms. I figured - I figured it was an acceptable trade off, that if I _had_ to serve, I could at least spend my life next to him. But it was a deal with the devil, because now he’s gone, and I’m still here. How do I get over this? How do I handle this _sober_ , Kris? You tell me.”

Kris took a deep breath, the pain and guilt on his features from Sid’s story melting into a firm conviction. He looked suddenly calm; he looked like the captain he was always meant to be. “You’re grieving, afflicted with nostalgia, and addicted to morphine. You need to find your purpose in life. But first, you need to come clean of the drugs.”

“My purpose in life has been _stolen_ from me,” Sid spat, a massive headache forming. “I had a purpose - “

“And now it’s gone! And it’s never coming back, but there’s still something out there for you, Sid! Some _new_ purpose!”

Sid waved his hand, dismissively. “So what’s your purpose, Kris?”

“Well, right now...I suppose it’s you.” Kris smiled thinly, holding out the morphine kit. “I’ll give this back to you now. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. So ration it well.”

All manners of insults bubbled up in Sid’s brain, but instead he just snatched his kit and prepared another needle; a small one, just a little to get him back to sleep, take the edge off. “Goodnight, then,” he snapped, and as he slumped back into bed he reflected on the conversation, how he’d gone from begging forgiveness to burning with anger, and that Kris was still the aggrieved party here. Despite everything he’d said, he didn’t want Kris to leave. “I love you,” he said, a little softer, in his moment of fresh clarity.

“Go to sleep, Sid,” Kris said softly, petting his shoulder. Then, after a moment, a little longer than Sid would have liked: “I love you, too.”

~~~~~

 _Morphine isn’t addictive._ It was common knowledge, what Sid had always known to be true.

Common knowledge, Sid decided, was absolute rubbish.

The morphine ran out in about a week, and Sid expected to quit cold turkey easily enough. He’d need to deal with the nightmares that came to him, the horrors of the brothel, the memories of bowing to Foligno, the visions of Boone and Ryan in Hell, but everything else about quitting should have been easy. And yet...

“I’ll do anything,” he begged from where his was on the floor, curled around the chamberpot, voice rough from an hour of puking. “Anything, Kris. Do you want to fuck me? You can fuck me, just - I need it, please, I _need_ it.”

“Sid,” Kris soothed gently, bending down to wipe his damp forehead with a cool cloth. “You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” Sid asked desperately, grabbing Kris’ wrist. “I’m good at it. I’ll be so good for you. Just - just a _little_ bit, not even a full hit, and you can, you can do whatever you want to me.”

Kris sighed softly, started unbuttoning Sid’s sweat-soaked shirt, and he had a moment of hope; this was it, Kris was going to take him up on the offer. He’d get more morphine. Instead, Kris cleaned him with the washcloth and fit him with a fresh shirt.

“No, _no,”_ he moaned, squirming on the floor, trying to find some peace or comfort. He was alternatively hot and cold, and laying in bed was almost worse. Kris had already had to wash the blankets twice. He prayed for death, prayed for morphine, prayed for _anything_ to alleviate these terrible symptoms.

At some point, he must have passed out, because next he woke up he was in bed, next to a softly-snoring Kris. It was evening out; from the looks of the moon, not quite midnight.

Sid had hoped his symptoms would be better, but his sleep clothes were soaked in sweat again, and he was shivering from the chill of it. His mouth was dry, he had a _terrible_ headache, and there was only one thing on his mind. He wouldn’t be able to get morphine this late, the general store wasn’t open, but there was the next best thing. The opium den would surely be happy to receive him.

As gently as he could with his uncontrollable trembling, he slipped off the bed and bent down to retrieve the strongbox containing their money. It was locked, but the key was always hidden in the second dresser drawer - 

Sid stared in dismay at the empty spot where the key had always been. Kris must have taken it, _hidden it_ , and knowing him, he probably had the key somewhere on his person. There would be no chance for Sid to retrieve it and not wake him up.

A thousand murderous thoughts towards Kris ran through his head as he searched through the drawers and his knapsack in search of any misplaced funds or money, but there was nothing. Could he pawn something, perhaps? The trinket box was lovely and might fetch a few coins.

He felt immediately sick for even considering it. The trinket box was the very last connection he had with Boone and Ryan. Anyway, there was something else he could sell much easier than that. Sid changed out of his disgusting under garments, grabbed a fresh set and a clean shirt and pants, and slipped out the door with Kris still snoring. He felt wobbly going down the stairs, fighting off a wave of nausea while his legs trembled and he tried to remember how to properly make them work, but he made it down to the street without puking.

It was normally a short walk to his destination, five minutes tops, but tonight it took him fifteen to slink through the shadows, stomach still protesting every step, sweat beading again at his brows. The street seemed empty, but Sid knew better; he could hear evidence of what this place was best known for, soft girlish moans and grunts from back alleys and around corners. He saw a woman approaching, but waved her off. He was not here to _buy._

It didn’t take long for a man to turn down the street, strolling slowly, pretending to simply be on a walk. Sid straightened up, wiped his forehead, attempted to look presentable. “Sir,” he said, and the man startled, looked at him suspiciously.

“I ain’t doing nothin’,” he said, “if you’re a constable.”

“You have the wrong idea.”

 _“Oh,”_ the man barked a laugh. “No, I ain’t into that,” he said, and began walking away.

“Half price,” Sid called, hating how desperate he sounded.

The man paused, turned around, and started heading back towards Sid.

~~~~~

The rest of the evening was a blur. There was a blowjob (perhaps two?), stumbling to the opium den, the searing frustration that the pipe didn’t offer immediate relief like morphine and its needle. He remembered the laughter that bubbled up uncontrolled when it finally _did_ work, the deep pit of desire and need for the drug quieting down to a soft satisfaction, his nausea finally eased. And he remembered waking up next to Kris, his lovely features softened by the low light of the opium den. He didn’t look sad or angry, as Sid might have expected; instead, there was a grim resolve.

Kris didn’t say anything when he took Sid home, practically carrying him through the streets as he stumbled and babbled nonsense. Sid wasn’t sure whether he was begging for forgiveness, or trying to explain himself, or make excuses, but Kris seemed unaffected by it all, the calm, stony expression never leaving his features.

Sid woke up the next day tied to the bed.

“Wha…” he mumbled, still in the dregs of sleep and opium. He tried to reach down to scratch his leg when his wrist caught firmly, and now his eyes flew open, panicked. Brothel, he was back in the brothel, oh God!

“You’re fine. You’re fine, you’re here with me, you’re home,” Kris murmured, by his side in an instant, smoothing Sid’s hair off his face.

“I’m not fine! I’m tied to the bed!” Sid could hear the terror in his voice, and found his legs were untied as he started thrashing and kicking. “Let me go, _let me go!”_

“I have to go to work.” Kris took a step back, his courier’s vest half-unbuttoned. “I can’t lose this job, and I can’t trust you on your own. Believe me, I wish this were different. Here, you have enough slack to sit up, and I’m going to put this here if you need to vomit.” Kris set the empty chamberpot on the bed next to him, and Sid tested it out; yes, he could sit up, and he could use the chamberpot to puke, although peeing would be difficult if not impossible. His hands were tied apart from each other, and while he could reach the knot that attached each rope to the bed, he could only reach it with a single hand. Kris was an expert at knots, he remembered his skill at rigging, and he knew the trembles that would soon start would make it all but impossible to get himself free.

“What if I piss myself?”

“God knows we have both done far worse than that on the seas.” Kris bent down to kiss his forehead, and Sid jerked away with a snarl. “I’m sorry, Sid. You’ll thank me later. I’ll make it a short day, I promise.”

“You can’t leave me like this. Kris - _Kris_ , this is what they did to me in the brothel. They tied me to the bed, all day, all night! _Kris!”_ he shrieked, and Sid could see Kris’ shoulders slump as he grabbed his coat from the back of the door.

“I’m sorry, Sid,” he said, breath hitching with threatening tears. “I’m so sorry. I love you. Please know this is for your own good.”

 _“Kris!”_ he howled as the door closed, but it remained shut. Kris was gone.


	50. Chapter 50

It had been a long, terrible day tied to the bed.

The chills and sweating had started first, until his skin gleamed, clothes stuck to his body, sheets a damp mess. Next his nose started running and he became congested, like an influenza patient, and his muscles twitched and cramped, unable to find relief by even shifting positions. By the time Kris returned home, the nausea had started, and his chin and clothes were coated in drool and puke. To his credit, Kris didn’t cringe or gag or shudder away; he just gently cleaned Sid, wiping him with a cloth and changing his clothes while Sid hurled insults and threats at him.

Kris untied his hands, one at a time, deftly avoiding Sid’s wild swings of fury and keeping him gently pinned to the bed while he howled protests. He cleaned Sid’s rope burn, wrapped his wrists in bandages, and retied him.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” Sid snarled, wincing as his wrists rubbed against the rope as he yanked on them. Even bandaged, they hurt with every movement. Without morphine, every pain seemed magnified, terrible. “Or maybe you can. Maybe you’re just like _them,_ Kris, just like that brothel, those _pirates.”_

“I’m not keeping you there forever,” Kris said mildly, settling back in the chair. “A few more days at worst. Then you’ll be over this terrible thing.”

“How do you know? Are you a physician now? Doctor Letang?” It didn’t feel like this would be over in a few days; it felt like it would be neverending torment, like he wasn’t able to survive without morphine. Sid wasn’t sure why Kris couldn’t see it; he was an absolute wreck, a ship sinking beneath the waves without even a lifeboat thrown.

Kris heaved a sigh. “You remember Sunshine?”

_Sunshine_ \- the _Penguin_ crew’s nickname for a sailor whose God-given name was Beau Bennett. Beloved by them all, and then dead, a victim of the sort of war the _Penguin_ engaged in. Sid had privately grieved for days, keeping a calm facade for the benefit of the crew, many of whom were in terrible shape for weeks afterward. “Of course I fucking remember - how could I forget him? You bring _him_ up? You sure know how to make me feel better. That doesn’t answer my question.”

A flicker of annoyance passed through Kris’ features. “I’m sure you also remember his bunk mate. Brian. We all grieved for Beau, but uh...he was out of sorts with it. The next time I did inventory, I found rum missing from storage. A _lot_ of rum. Enough to get a man hanged. He’d been stealing it, getting drunk off his ass to forget. To numb the pain. Sound like someone we know?”

Sid set his jaw, turned away with a frown.

“I didn’t report him to you,” Kris continued. “I didn’t think you’d hang him, but he’d have been flogged harshly for sure based on how much he’d stolen. I thought that would just make things worse. So I enlisted a few men to help, and we confined him to his bunk until he sobered up. Sometimes it was just like this, tied down, trying to muffle his moans and cries. It took about a week, but then he was fine.”

“Fine?”

“No longer pissing himself or hallucinating, at least,” Kris amended. “He needed support for months after that. He couldn’t be alone, couldn’t be around anyone who was drinking rum. We’d take turns, sitting with him and playing cards while parties happened so he wouldn’t be tempted. But that’s what you do when someone’s important, Sid.” He slid his hand down Sid’s arm, a comforting touch. “We wouldn’t let him fail, and I won’t let you fail either.”

Sid thought back to the crew reunion, less than a year ago here in Pittsburgh. Brian - big and lanky, beard long but clean, better known by his nickname Dumo - had sat close to Kris, looking thrilled to see Sid. He’d laughed easily, smiled happily, looking like a man at peace with the world. He’d drank a juice instead of ale, Sid remembered that much, had thought it odd at the time. He figured Dumo perhaps had a bout of scurvy coming on, but now it made sense.

But that reunion had been _years_ after Sunshine’s death. “How long,” Sid muttered. “How long was he tormented? How long did you have to keep him from _failing?”_

Kris made a soft noise, shifting uncomfortably. “These things aren’t so linear. It’s not as if we supported him for six months and one day he just woke up and was suddenly _better_ and never needed anything. He had good days, and bad days. The bad days were less and less over time. But the worst of it, perhaps...six months.”

_Six months?_ Sid groaned, feeling another tremor run through him. Six months of cravings? Of feeling like he’d never be happy again? He wasn’t sure he could bear it.

“You’ve suffered worse and come through it,” Kris said, as if he could read Sid’s thoughts. “You’ll have me the whole time. I promise. I love you, Sid.”

Rather than answering, Sid rolled over and gagged into the chamberpot. Probably for the best; a particularly unkind insult had been bubbling up. Instead, he swallowed the words down, and spit his puke out.

~~~~~

The hallucinations Kris had mentioned when talking about Dumo started on the third day. But they weren’t hallucinations like a man dying of thirst in a desert, seeing an oasis in the distance. Instead, they were firm convictions that played havoc with his mind, absolute certainties about things that weren’t true. He began his day _certain_ that he was back in the brothel, confused that no customers were coming in to see him. Over lunch he became absolutely _certain_ he would die without morphine, and screamed and hollered for someone, anyone to save him, but nobody came. And in the afternoon he was absolutely _certain_ that the world was going to end unless he intervened, panic twisting at his bones that the entire country was dying because he was stuck in bed and unable to save them.

By the time Kris woke him up, the sky dusky with the upcoming evening, it was over.

“How do you feel?” Kris asked cautiously, holding out a piece of bread. Sid hadn’t had an appetite for days, and he was suddenly ravenous, unable to answer through wolfing down the food. Kris laughed at the sight, expression going soft. “Is that to say you feel better?”

“More food,” Sid mumbled. Kris headed to their little makeshift pantry while he stretched his limbs, tried to feel the world out. It felt like he’d been out at sea for a year, accumulating dirt and grime and sweat and sea salt, and had just returned home and taken a bath. There was a sort of clean feeling, fresh and new.

On the other end of the spectrum, and somehow at the same time, he also felt a terrible ache of something missing. Like he’d stepped out of that bath and was now naked and cold, shivering for his clothes. Even if his clothes were filthy, he still wanted them, still felt raw and exposed without them.

Kris untied him, cautiously, and fed him potatoes and bread and an egg, which he ate quickly and then puked half back up, stomach still tender. “Fuck, sorry,” he muttered, staring at the wasted food in the chamberpot. Things were going to get tight soon from a money perspective, he knew, without his salary. He couldn’t afford to waste food.

“It’s fine. Sid, I - you know I’m sorry, right? I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to do it, to leave you tied up all day, but I had no other choice. It was the only way I knew how. I hated every second of it as much as you did.”

“I doubt you hated it as much as I did,” Sid said, drawing a smile out of Kris. “I just don’t know what to do now. I still have this...empty insatiable maw inside of me, like a demon whose only thought and concern is for morphine. Will I have this forever? How can I live with this?”

Kris gathered him close, gingerly, like he expected Sid to lash out. It wasn’t a bad assumption based off his behavior over the past few days, but this time Sid melted into the touch, exhausted and desperate for it. “I don’t think you’ll have it forever,” Kris murmured softly in his ear. “Or at least, that demon will be nothing but a whisper most of your life. That’s what Dumo told me. Sometimes that demon gets loud and mean, and you have to rely on others to help you out. But mostly, you can ignore it. I think I have a plan, but…”

“But?”

“I’m not sure you’ll love it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Kris insisted that part of what cured Dumo had been _work;_ something that took all your energy and left you exhausted. For Dumo, that had been some of the ship’s toughest assignments in rigging or moving cargo, duties that left him with barely enough energy to crawl into his bunk at night, much less seek out drink. “You propose to work me to death,” Sid muttered, shaking his head.

“It’s not forever,” Kris said. “Only until the screams of your demons turn into whispers. Six months, perhaps. Then I was thinking we could pledge onto a merchant ship together. Or maybe work with the buccaneers. We’d be back on the seas together.”

“I suppose,” Sid said, reluctantly. Kris seemed so certain, and Sid didn’t have any better ideas for a cure. He was at least willing to try.

The evening stretched on long. Sid couldn’t sleep, but he couldn’t read either, still afflicted by the occasional tremor that would shake a book or a newspaper out of his grasp. Kris read to him until his voice gave out and he went hoarse. “Your turn,” he said, coughing.

“I can’t read.”

“So tell me a story.”

“A story.” Sid scrunched up his nose, thinking; there weren’t many tales that Kris hadn’t been intimately a part of. At least not tales that he wanted to remember right now. “I don’t know. What do you want to know about?”

Kris paused, seemingly realizing the potential array of sensitive subjects. His eyes swept the room until they fell on Sid’s cane. “Your cane. What’s the tale behind that? How did you get it?”

His cane was still not a subject he particularly wished to touch, but it could have been worse, so he bit back a sigh and nodded. “Remember when we left Pittsburgh, and canes were in high fashion? It must have been the same in Columbus. Foligno had six or seven of them in his quarters, fancy things, gaudy and expensive. Not anything he bought off a Naval salary, that’s for sure.”

“Pirates,” Kris groaned, playful, and Sid laughed low.

“Pirates,” he agreed. “I never saw him use the things, but it seemed he had a soft spot for them. Anyway, after that evening on the _Capital,_ I couldn’t walk without a terrible limp. Foligno lent me one of his canes. I suppose _lent_ is no longer the right word, being that he’s leagues under the sea now. If things get bad, we could sell it.”

“You’d be willing to?”

“I _did_ get to kill Dubinsky with that cane,” Sid said. “So there are good memories associated with it, some sentimental value. But if we’re going to sell anything of mine, it would be that. I don’t have much, but I have a keepsake in my knapsack that I have to hold onto. I’d rather be homeless than sell it.”

“Boone,” Kris guessed correctly, and Sid nodded, stared at his trembling hands.

“Boone,” he murmured in agreement. Facing Boone’s death sober, as he was now, was a dreadful thing. Would it ever get better?

“May I see it?” Kris’ question snapped him out of his reverie, his self-absorbed pity he had started to spiral down into. “Your keepsake, I mean.”

He had half a mind to refuse, but right now he wanted to see it. Boone, he knew, would be sorely disappointed in his morphine habit; maybe holding the stave would give him a little more encouragement. “It's in my knapsack.”

Kris nodded, gingerly dug around in the bag until he pulled out the key with a frown. “This isn't it, is it?”

“No, but bring that, too.”

The trinket box was the next thing he pulled out, and the sight of Kris holding the last vestiges of Sid's old life nearly made him choke. “Here,” Kris said softly, handing them over and sticking close, pressed to Sid's side. “You alright?”

Instead of answering, Sid slowly opened the box, ran his fingers along the stave. “We were docked in Iceland when I was injured by the _Capital._ Boone got me this little carving. The symbol means good fortune. I guess he could have used some of that himself.”

He closed his eyes, took a long moment to compose himself before continuing. “The box itself was Ryan's. One of the things he brought from his old life. Do you see the twined snakes? They mean love and devotion. So he gave the box to Boone, to gift to me.”

“Odd,” Kris noted, and Sid frowned.

“What's odd?”

“You told me that Ryan was sold to the _Blue Jacket,_ right? Of all the things to bring with him from his old life, he chooses a pretty jewelry box? It doesn't make sense.”

“Well - “ Sid paused, at a loss for words. Kris wasn't wrong; he'd never thought to question it though, too thrilled at the gift, at having something he could call his own, at having a _friend,_ to worry about anything else. 

“So what's this?” Kris indicated the key in his other hand. He handed it over for Kris to inspect; his hands were beginning to shake in earnest now, a terrible bout of craving that made it hard to concentrate.

“A key to nothing. This was Ryan's too, something he wore around his neck, the key to his old stateroom on his father's ship. And then Boone had it when he was dying, insisted I take it, but couldn't tell me why.”

Kris gave the key a thoughtful look, turning it over in his hands. “What's it open?”

“I told you, his room on - “

“No. That's not it.”

Sid balked, frustration rising high alongside the terrible morphine longings. “What else could it be? Boone kept referencing the box, but there's no keyhole on this box, I've checked a thousand times. And - and if Ryan said the key was to his stateroom, that's what it was. He's not a _liar.”_

“I never said he was, but - “

“But - !” The tremors suddenly overcame him, and the box shook right out of his hands, landing heavy on the floor. Sid scooped it up, bit back a distressed cry; the edge of the stave had cut a small hole in the fabric which it lay on as it fell. “Oh, no. _No.”_

“Let me see,” Kris soothed, and Sid was too upset to protest. He saw Kris prod at the small cut, watched his mouth twist up curiously. “Sid, tell me. Did Ryan seem awfully sentimental about his family?”

Sid scoffed. “Are you seriously asking me about - no. No, he wasn't. He hated his father,” he finished, remembering Kris’ roundabout story on Sunshine and hoping he had a point here, too.

“Again, it doesn't strike you as odd? That he'd keep some memento of his former life which he apparently hated?”

“What's your point?”

“Look through this little cut,” Kris said, setting aside the stave and showing Sid the tiny hole, where metal glinted through. “The box appears deep from the outside but much shallower on the inside. I think it's a false bottom. I think your friend brought this very deliberately from his father's ship, something he knew was important, with a key he kept on his person at all times. But to see whether that's correct, I'll need to rip off this fabric bottom.”

“Absolutely not,” Sid said firmly. “You'd destroy the box. Kris, it's the last thing I have left, okay? How can you ask me to…?”

“Sid.” Kris’ serious tone paused all objections on his lips. “Boone used his _dying words_ to try and tell you something about this key and this box. So you can keep it hidden away in your knapsack, or you can follow his wishes and try to figure out what he meant.” Sid groaned, dropped his head into his hands. “You don’t have to tell me now. Think about it.”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Yes?” Kris looked startled. “Just like that? After all your protests?”

“You’re right,” Sid admitted. “Ryan wasn’t particularly sentimental, wasn’t attached to _things,_ and yet he brought along this box and this key. You’re right about Boone, too. He tried so hard to tell me _something._ I owe it to him to try and figure it out, even if it means…”

“We can repair it, if it turns out to be nothing.” Kris pulled out his pocket knife, and Sid huffed in distress. “Look away, if you need to.”

Sid’s stomach gave him a good excuse to not watch his precious box being dismantled; a wave of nausea ran through him, and he ended up bent over the chamberpot, heaving. Behind him, Kris murmured a soft _wow,_ but he wasn’t able to turn and see for a long minute.

When he turned back, there was an unfamiliar metal box in Kris’ hands, nearly the same size as the trinket box. “A hidden compartment,” Kris said excitedly, gesturing to the wooden exterior of the box, now empty and warped where Kris had used his knife to pry out the metal. “And…”

“A keyhole,” Sid whispered, staring at the opening. He’d turned over the box a million times, touched it, shaken it, and never had he suspected anything like what was in Kris’ hands. Thinking back on it, the signs were clear. It had been abnormally heavy, and Sid had seen these kind of fakes before with pirates. How had he been so blind?

“It was the only thing you had from them,” Kris said, as if reading Sid’s mind. “Of course you would want to preserve it. Don’t beat yourself up over not seeing it before. Do you want to come unlock it?”

Sid lifted his hands up to his face, watched them shake violently, the tremors worse now with excitement. “You do it.”

The key fit into the lock with a satisfying _snick,_ and it turned easily, the lid popping open. Sid bit back a sob of relief, sent a prayer of thank-you skyward; he didn’t know what was in the box, but for Ryan to have deliberately carried it off his father’s ship, ensured that it had come to be in Sid’s possession, for Boone to have given him the key with his dying breath, it was going to be important.

He’d never been so sure of anything in his life.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [At the All-Star Game this year.](https://i.imgur.com/9UxeeJ2.jpg) And now I realize this is the second ASG that this fic has been active for! Thanks for sticking around!

Of all the things Sid expected to be in the box, _papers_ was somewhere very far down the list. But there they were, slightly yellowed, folded tight and jammed into the little lockbox. “Huh,” Kris muttered, gently wiggling them out; they were wedged so tight it took a long moment to extract them without ripping or tearing any of the sheets. He gingerly unfolded one of the papers and started to read, eyes skimming quickly as he flipped through the documents. “What did you say Ryan’s last name was again? Murray, was it?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And his father was rich?”

“It certainly sounded like it. He ran a shipping company, sailed his own merchant ship. Mostly I know that he was an asshole.”

Kris’ mouth curled up in a wry smile. “Well if you ever intended to get a measure of revenge on your friend’s behalf, this might be a good start.” He turned the typeface towards Sid. “They’re deeds. Properties, companies, ships, those kinds of things.”

“Oh.” Sid didn’t know much of anything about deeds, or properties, or ownership, but Kris had an excited gleam in his eye that seemed to bode good tidings. “Why is that special?”

“My brother works as a mailman if you remember. When I visited last, he told me that his post office has been doing a lot of notarization and secure deliveries since the America Alliance formed. You used to register your deeds with the local country, but now they’re moving towards a national registry. So if your property is registered with Pittsburgh, now they also want you to re-register with America. But you need your original deed to do so.” Kris held up the sheaf of papers. “Your friend’s father needs to finalize ownership of these properties with America, and he needs these deeds to do so.”

Sid scrubbed his face. What Kris was suggesting didn’t sound exactly legal. “So you’re suggesting _we_ register ownership instead? And then what?”

“Transfer the property into your name, then you sell them off. There’s a lot of assets here, Sid. We make a lot of money and say fuck you to this guy’s shitty father.”

“You know we spent our whole careers fighting against the bad guys, and now you seem to be suggesting we become the bad guys.”

Kris huffed, barely containing an eye roll. “No, you said it yourself, Ryan’s father is the bad guy. We stole plenty of shit from pirates - “

“And turned it over to the government!” Kris lifted his eyebrow, and Sid conceded with a raise of his hands. “Turned _most_ of it over to the government. But it’s not like we were out there getting rich. And we certainly weren’t breaking the law. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about selling property, Kris, do you?”

“No, but between the two of us, I’ll bet we can figure it out.”

“Where are these properties, anyway?”

Kris squinted, flipping through a couple sheets. “Looks like, mmm...they’re all in Detroit, it appears. That could be a problem. Have you ever been to Detroit?”

“No,” Sid said slowly, eyes straying to his rucksack hanging on the wall. “But I think I have an idea.”

“Hmm?”

He stood, fighting off a wave of nausea as he wobbled over to the rucksack, managed to find the scrap of paper that Shanahan had written his address on, crumpled at the bottom. He clutched it close and sighed; he remembered being confused as to why he’d kept the thing. Perhaps fate had properly intervened, in this case.

“What’s that?” Kris asked as Sid returned, handed the information over. He frowned when he saw the name. “Shanahan,” he said slowly, then his eyes narrowed in fury. “Shanahan? That man who wrote - that _letter_ \- the one who - “

“Yes, it’s him. But check the address. He’s from Detroit.”

“He also bought your services as a prostitute, Sid! No, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Kris’ mouth went tight, a thin line, but he didn’t respond. “Look, there was a man I met from Detroit, an associate of the Shanahans’, who was pretty horrified when he found out I’d been in the Navy and was selling myself. I’ll bet he’d be willing to help, but I don’t have his information. But this man, Brendan Shanahan, he can get us to him. I know you don’t like it - “

“Understatement,” Kris growled.

“ - but it’s preferable than going on a wild goose chase by ourselves, I think.”

“What makes you so sure this _associate_ would be willing to help us out? What we’re aiming to do isn’t quite legal, you know.”

“Right.” Sid chewed on his mouth, thinking. “He may not be willing to help us in this regard. But it’s a risk I think we should take. I don’t see another option.”

Kris pinched the bridge of his nose, and was silent for a long moment, but finally nodded. “Write your letter then, Sid,” he said. “Don’t think I won’t have a few choice words for this Shanahan if we meet him, though. In the interim, I meant what I said about work curing addiction. I’ve seen it. If you’re idle all day, waiting for this letter to return, you’ll be back on morphine in no time. The textile mill is hiring, and you’ll be there.”

A flash of anger burst through Sid at Kris’ demands - he was Kris’ _superior officer,_ how dare he - but his fury fled just as quickly. He was no longer any kind of officer. Kris wanted only the best for him, and Sid wanted to get away from this demon as well, and was willing to try most anything. “Fine,” he said, unable to keep the grumpy tone from his voice, and Kris softened.

“If this works out, you won’t have to be there long. We can do anything we want, Sid. Get our own little ship, sail the seas together? What do you think?”

“Maybe.” The idea had some potential, and Sid shuffled over, melted against Kris’ side. The whole situation was starting to hit him now, what Boone and Ryan had done for him, and he picked up the discarded key, turned it in his grasp. “You know...Ryan clearly knew what this box held. And when he brought it to the _Blue Jacket,_ of course he wasn’t thinking of me, he didn’t even know me. But when he gave it to me, he must have had some sort of plan in the works for us. Some sort of happy-ever-after for me and him and Boone. And when that all went wrong, Boone made sure to fight off death to get this key to me.”

Kris kissed his temple, held him close. “Sounds like they loved you a lot, Sid.”

“I just miss them so much,” he whimpered, clutching the key so hard his knuckles turned white. “God, I miss them.”

“You know, it’s one of the reasons I’m fighting so hard, to get you clean,” Kris said. He smiled softly at Sid’s quizzical look. “What would I say to Boone when I meet him in Heaven if I _don’t_ take care of you, huh? He’ll kick my ass. I mean, if that’s allowed in paradise.”

Sid chuckled through his tears. “Even if it’s not allowed, somehow I think he’d find a way.”

“Exactly. So there.” Kris touched the key gently. “You know, we were talking about you getting that tattoo to honor them? I think maybe I have an idea of what you could get...”

~~~~~

The first thing Sid did the next day, when his hands were just a little steadier, was write out his letter to Brendan Shanahan. _Mister Shanahan, you don’t owe me anything, but if I can ask something of you…_

He requested Jiri Fischer’s address, as he had a strong suspicion that Jiri would be invested in helping Sid with his mission. Jiri seemed genuinely interested in helping Sid get clean, pushing him towards the right path. He couldn’t be sure how receptive Shanahan would be to his request - getting clean meant that Sid surely wouldn’t sell himself as a slave - so he remained deliberately vague in his language to Brendan. At least he could give Sid a lifeline to Jiri.

He waffled back and forth at the end of the letter, but eventually promised Shanahan to owe him some sort of favor if he'd do as requested. He simply had to get ahold of Jiri, and if he was going to need to owe Shanahan to get there, so be it. Sid stamped the wax seal shut and then sent it off through the mail, deliberately not telling Kris about the whole _favor_ bit.

The second thing he did was drag himself to the nearest textile mill and procure a job, to start that next day. Sid did the math in his head; for his letter to get to Detroit and to receive an answer back from Shanahan (assuming he wrote back promptly) would be perhaps a month. Then there would need to be more letters exchanged with Jiri Fischer, if he indeed did agree to help. It would not be a particularly fun couple of months, but there was an exit plan, and that was enough to give Sid some strength.

Finally, he found himself at the docks, at one of the local tattooists. It was not the typical anchor or swallows or compass that most sailor’s tattoos were, but the man was talented, and soon a very good rendering of the stave and key were covering the entirety of the ugly _Capital_ brand on his chest. The raised flesh was still visible, making it obvious it had once been a brand, but at least the bird design was now obscured. “It looks amazing,” Kris enthused, true to his word about not being jealous, and they ended up on their bed, kissing long and slow until they fell asleep. Sid’s libido was not quite back - it had nearly vanished with his morphine addiction and prostitution - but it was getting there, a tiny spark of desire in his stomach at the kisses, long-missed.

They both woke up early the next day. Kris’ position as carrier allowed him to walk Sid to the factory, make sure he got inside and didn’t duck away for drugs. At the end of the day, he could again meet Sid at the door, and both of them could finish the last of Kris’ route together and go home. It was galling being treated this way, like an untrustworthy child needing a babysitter, but Sid knew he’d brought this kind of treatment upon himself.

He started off as a spooler, working the massive machines inside a hot room, but he made the mistake of taking off his shirt a few days into the job. “You,” his supervisor had barked to him. “Your back.”

“Sir?” He turned, eyes wide; what had he done wrong? Other men had taken off their shirts as well, in the heat.

The man’s eyes went straight to his new tattoo and the brand underneath, and then strayed to the little anchor on Sid’s wrist that he’d gotten when he’d first joined the Navy. “Aren’t you the rare bird,” he sniggered. “Based off those whipping marks I was going to ask slave or Navy, but, well. Ain’t never seen a man that was both.”

“Just Navy,” Sid protested, but the man smirked and didn’t seem to believe it. Nevertheless, he quickly found himself on the loading docks, the most labor-intensive job in the mill. They were given exclusively to ex-slaves or ex-military; those men were expected to be acclimated to the hardest labor, able to carry the most weight. Suddenly, everyone he saw had the same scars on their backs that Sid did, just in different patterns or severities. In a way, it was almost comforting.

Sid puked nearly half a dozen times that first day loading, but Kris wasn’t wrong about _labor._ He’d worked himself to exhaustion, barely managing to eat dinner before crawling into bed, his knee throbbing. He did have one brief thought about morphine - how his soreness and pain would be sweetly relieved with it - but he didn’t even have the motivation to get out of bed, much less go and find some of the drug. Kris washed him and gave him a massage as he fell asleep, murmuring about how proud he was of Sid.

As the days went on, Sid found himself - if not quite _liking_ it - at least not hating it, at least compared to the spooling job. He was outside most of the time, instead of in the choking, dusty air of the mill. He could move heavy objects all day, never really have to speak to anyone else if he didn’t want to, and just daydream of his life with Kris. His knee was mostly cooperative, save for a few excruciatingly painful days, but everyone at the loading job had old injuries and nagging pains, and they all helped each other through it. Vainly, too, he found muscles that he hadn't seen since he was a much younger man. He'd been pudgy when he was a captain, lean when he was a whore, but now he was starting to look a little more built.

Unfortunately, even if Kris teased and admired the incoming sharpness in his hips and abs, Sid couldn't find the willpower to want anything physical from Kris. His libido was creeping back slowly, but he dragged himself home each night, rinsed off in the fishmonger's tub, and collapsed into bed, tired and sore. He registered Kris' body pressed against him, cuddled close, but the deep, penetrating exhaustion prevented him from desiring anything besides sleep.

Nearly a month and a half into it, it had been a uniquely terrible day at the mill. Sid's concern about Shanahan answering the letter was growing daily, and he felt anxious, his stomach ever on the edge of rebelling. It was raining, so everyone was soaked through, and one of the supervisors dragged out one of the young boys employed at the mill and strapped him in front of the loading crew, yelling about stealing something or other. Sid tried to ignore the screams of the boy, his frantic apologies, the loud, whippy snaps of the strap as it came down on his back, but he broke out into a sweat that had nothing to do with the barrel of finished clothes he was moving at the time. If he closed his eyes for a moment too long, he could hear the flog whistling through the air, sounding nearly the same as the strap, hear his own howls of pain. All of the other loaders seemed uncomfortable, as well; a large man named Henry, that Sid had gotten to know and sometimes ate lunch with, looked particularly haunted by the sounds, practically trembling.

It had been a stressful day, then, when Sid finally dragged himself from the line, feeling spent and soaked through, knee aching and a slow simmering ache for drugs that still caught him at least a few times a week. He turned to head out, where Kris was waiting, but a flash of orange caught his eye. There, under one of the wagons, was a small orange-and-white kitten, shivering in the damp. Sid didn't know what compelled him to do it, maybe he was delirious after the long hours, maybe he was feeling especially sympathetic after the lashing he saw, or perhaps it was the creature's exceptionally pathetic face, but Sid scooped him up in his arms.

Kris’ eyebrows lifted nearly into his hairline at the sight. “What in the world - what is _that?”_

“Seems to be a cat,” Sid said, holding out the tiny thing, who didn’t even squirm. He could see the kitten watching Kris with sad eyes, could practically see Kris melt under its gaze. “We should keep him.”

“We - but it’s - the problem is - “ Kris seemed to be searching for an objection that wasn’t coming, sighing loudly. “You really want him?”

“You courier for a fishmonger tomorrow, don’t you? Bring him some scraps. Until then, we’ve got some beef at our place, eh?”

Kris grumbled good-naturedly. “Yeah, beef. Beef for us. _Our_ beef.”

“Right, our beef. Mine, yours, and Guppy’s.”

“Guppy. Really, you have to give him a dumb name, too?”

Sid scoffed, keeping the kitten secure inside his shirt, shielding it from the worst of the rain. “Come up with something better, then.”

“Maybe I will.”

At home, Sid dried the kitten off gently while Kris made a simple dinner. Despite still shivering, and skinny, the kitten closed his eyes and started purring, leaning into Sid’s hand. He ate the tiny pieces of dried beef ravenously, and they found a small dish to place on the floor with water, and cracked the window in case he needed to go out. By the time Kris was ready for bed, Sid was already half-asleep, the kitten curled on his chest, purring.

"Oh, is this how it's going to be? Usurped by a cat," Kris grumbled playfully, curling next to Sid.

"He's cuter than you," Sid mumbled, turning his head to offer a kiss. "But I love you."

Kris still lit up with a smile every time Sid said it, murmuring it back into the kiss, which lingered long. Tomorrow was Sunday, their one day off for the week; Sid resolved that, exhaustion be damned, he would _show_ Kris his appreciation, how much he was loved.

They woke a little late, to a knock on the door. The kitten was still curled between them, purring, and Kris groaned and shuffled to the door in his nightclothes, not bothering with propriety. Sid, still half-asleep, heard the low conversation, but couldn’t make out any words, still dozing.

“Sid.” Kris’ tone woke him right up, and he blinked awake, sitting up to Guppy’s soft meow. “Look.”

In his hand was a letter.

A letter from _Detroit._


End file.
